THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 

IN  MEMORY  OF 
EDWIN  CORLE 

PRESENTED  BY 
JEAN  CORLE 


' 


BY  JAMES  HUNEKER 

MEZZOTINTS  IN  MODERN  MUSIC    (ISM) 

CHOPIN:  THE  MAN  AND  HIS  MUSIC  (itow 

MELOMANIACS   (1902) 
OTEHTONES    (1904) 

ICONOCLASTS:  A  BOOK  OF  DRAMATISTS  titet 

VISIONARIES    (1905) 

EGOISTS:  A  BOOK  OF  SUPERMEN  uw» 

PROMENADES  OF  AN  IMPRESSIONIST    (19101 

FRANZ  LISZT.      ILLUSTRATED   (MID 

THE  PATHOS  OF  DISTANCE    (191J) 

NEW  C08MOPOLIS   (1915) 

IVORY  APES  AND  PEACOCKS   (1918) 

UNICORNS    (191T) 

BKDOD1N8   <im 

STEEPLEJACK  (1920) 

VARIATIONS  (1W1) 

LETTERS  (19J2) 

CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 


NEW   COSMOPOLIS 


NEW  COSMOPOLIS 

A  BOOK  OF  IMAGES 


INTIMATE  NEW  YORK.  CERTAIN  EUROPEAN  CITIES 
BEFORE  THE  WAR:  VIENNA,  PRAGUE,  LITTLE 
HOLLAND,  BELGIAN  ETCHINGS,  MADRID,  DUBLIN, 
MARIENBAD.  ATLANTIC  CITY  AND  NEWPORT 


BY 

JAMES    HUNEKER 


NEW  YORK 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 

1925 


COPYRIGHT,  1915,  BY 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


Published  March,  1915 


College 
Library 

F 

l&ti' 

H  S7 


VANCE  THOMPSON 

£»  Souvenir—  "M'lXE  NEW  YORK: 


'  Vcngo  adesso  di  Cosmopoli." 
— Stendhal. 


1164394 


INSTEAD  OF  A  PREFACE 

ALL  my  life  I  have  longed  to  write  a  preface. 
Not  such  tinkling  evasions  as  forewords  or  intro 
ductions,  but  a  full-fledged  preface  which  would 
render  quite  superfluous  what  follows  it.  Con 
sider  the  case  of  Mr.  Shaw.  His  prefaces  are 
such  witty  masterpieces  that  they  make  neg 
ligible  his  plays.  But  I  have  never  cultivated 
courage  enough  to  take  the  first  dive  into  chilly 
type.  Either  I  have  squarely  dodged  the  sol 
emn  undertaking  or  compromised  with  a  coda; 
in  one  instance  I  actually  fabricated  a  pref 
ace  for  Egoists  (a  book  that  had  been  printed 
some  years)  and  placed  it  in  a  later  one.  Even 
in  the  present  head-line  there  lurks  a  meek  qual 
ification.  However,  as  brevity  may  be  a  pledge 
of  sincerity,  I  may  say  this  book  of  sky-lines 
and  perspectives  first  appeared  in  the  hospi 
table  columns  of  the  New  York  Sun,  Herald, 
Times,  Puck,  and  Metropolitan  Magazine;  that 
the  European  notes  were  written  and  published 
before  the  beginning  of  the  war  (from  the  sum 
mer  of  1909  to  the  spring  of  1914) ;  and  that  if 
silence  is  preserved  as  to  certain  art  galleries 
of  Amsterdam,  The  Hague,  Madrid,  and  else 
where,  it  is  because  these  public  collections  with 
vii 


INSTEAD  OF  A  PREFACE 

many  others  were  treated  at  length  in  my  Prom 
enades  of  an  Impressionist. 

That  inveterate  cosmopolite,  Stendhal,  wished 
to  be  in  a  city  where  the  people  were  most  like 
him.  Now,  Max  Stirner,  implacable  philoso 
pher  of  egoism,  would  never  have  acknowledged 
there  could  be  a  place  where  his  like  might  be 
found.  As  a  cosmopolitan  by  self-election,  I 
agree  with  both  these  egoists.  The  world  at 
large  is  compounded  of  rhythmic  surprise  and 
charm,  as  may  well  be  our  intimate  life;  their 
enjoyment  depends  upon  the  vision  and  sym 
pathy  we  bring  to  them.  If  Stendhal  were  in 
New  York  to-day  he  could  write :  Lo,  I  am  at 
Cosmopolis!  The  New  Cosmopolis.  Let  me 
conclude  this  meagre  apology  for  a  preface  with 
the  declaration  of  literary  faith  made  by  J.-K. 
Huysmans:  "I  record  what  I  see,  what  I  feel, 
what  I  have  experienced,  writing  it  as  well  as 
I  can,  et  wild,  tout!" 


CONTENTS 

PART  I 

INTIMATE  NEW  YORK 

PAGE 

I.  THE  FABULOUS  EAST  SIDE 3 

II.    THE  LUNGS 21 

III.  THE  WATERWAYS 38 

IV.  THE  MATRIX 51 

V.    THE  MAW  OF  THE  MONSTER 74 

VI.    THE  NIGHT  HATH  A  THOUSAND  EYES      ...  91 

VII.    BRAIN  AND  SOUL  AND  POCKETBOOK    ....  no 

VIII.    CONEY  ISLAND 149 

I.  By  Day 149 

II.  At  Night 159 

PART  II 

CERTAIN  EUROPEAN  CITIES  BEFORE  THE  WAR 

I.    VIENNA 181 

II.  PRAGUE 200 

III.    LITTLE  HOLLAND 217 

I.  Rotterdam 217 

II.  Through  the  Canals 226 

III.  Holland  en  F£te 233 

ix 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

IV.    BELGIAN  ETCHINGS 250 

I.  Brussels 250 

II.  Little  Cities  and  the  Beaches    ...  257 

V.    MADRID 269 

VI.    DEAR  OLD  DUBLIN 279 

VII.    FIGHTING  FAT  AT  MARIENBAD 295 

PART  III 
SAND  AND  SENTIMENT 

I.    ATLANTIC  CITY 309 

II.    NEWPORT ,     .     .  329 


PART  I 
INTIMATE  NEW  YORK 


THE  FABULOUS   EAST  SIDE 

THE  illusions  of  the  middle-aged  die  hardest. 
At  twenty  I  discovered,  with  sorrow,  that  there 
was  no  such  enchanted  spot  as  the  Latin  Quar 
ter.  An  old  Frenchman  with  whom  I  dined 
daily  at  that  time  in  a  luxurious  Batignolles 
gargote  informed  me  that  Paris  had  seen  the 
last  of  the  famous  quarter  after  the  Commune, 
but  a  still  older  person  who  wrote  obituary  no 
tices  for  the  parish  swore  the  Latin  Quarter 
had  not  been  in  existence  since  1848;  the  swell 
ing  tide  of  democracy  had  swept  away  the 
darling  superstitions  of  the  students,  many  of 
whom  became  comfortably  rich  when  Napo 
leon  the  Little  grasped  the  crown.  This  I  set 
down  as  pure  legend.  Had  I  not  seen  young 
painters,  poets,  and  musicians  in  baggy  velvet 
trousers  walk  up  and  down  the  BouF  Mich' 
during  the  exposition  of  1878?  And  they  still 
pranced  about  the  cafes  and  brasseries  in  1914, 
their  hair  as  long  as  their  thirst.  There  may 
be  no  Latin  Quarter,  but  the  Latin  Quarter  is 
ever  in  a  young  man's  soul  who  goes  to  Paris 
in  pursuit  of  the  golden  fleece  of  art. 

I  recovered  from  the  disillusionment  and  no 
more  bothered  my  head  about  this  pasteboard 
Bohemia  than  I  did  at  the  island  of  Marken 


THE  FABULOUS  EAST  SIDE 

when  I  was  told  that  its  Dutch  peasants  with 
their  picturesque  costumes  and  head-dress  were 
moonshine  manufactured  by  an  enterprising 
travel  bureau  to  attract  tourists.  Are  there 
not  more  Puritans  in  the  West  than  in  New 
England?  But  the  loss  of  such  a  treasured  il 
lusion  as  our  own  East  Side  smote  me  severely. 
When  young  and  buoyant  one  illusion  crowds 
out  another.  After  you  have  crossed  the  great 
divide  of  fifty,  with  the  mountains  of  the  moon 
behind  you,  and  an  increasing  waist  measure 
ment  before  you,  the  annulment  of  a  cherished 
image  wounds  the  soul. 

The  East  Side  with  its  Arabian  Nights  enter 
tainment  was  such  an  image.  Twenty  years 
ago  you  could  play  the  role  of  the  disguised 
Sultan  and  with  a  favourite  Vizier  sally  forth 
at  eve  from  Park  Row  in  pursuit  of  strange  ad 
ventures.  What  thrilling  encounters !  What 
hairbreadth  escapes !  What  hand-to-hand  strug 
gles  with  genii,  afrits,  imps  —  bottle-imps,  very 
often  —  dangerous  bandits,  perilous  policemen 
and  nymphs  or  thrice  dangerous  anarchists! 
To  slink  down  an  ill-lighted,  sinister  alley  full 
of  Chinese  and  American  tramps,  to  hurry  by 
solitary  policemen  as  if  engaged  in  some  criminal 
enterprise,  to  enter  the  abode  of  them  that  never 
wash,  where  bad  beer  and  terrible  tobacco  filled 
the  air  with  discordant  perfumes  —  ah!  what 
joys  for  adventurous  souls,  what  tremendous 
dawns  over  Williamsburg,  what  glorious  head 
aches  were  ours  on  awakening  the  next  night ! 


THE  FABULOUS   EAST  SIDE 

An  East  Side  there  was  in  those  hardy  times, 
and  it  was  still  virginal  to  settlement-workers, 
sociological  cranks,  impertinent  reformers,  self- 
advertising  politicians,  billionaire  socialists,  and 
the  ubiquitous  newspaper  man.  Magazine  writ 
ers  had  not  topsyturvied  the  ideas  of  the  tene 
ment  dwellers,  nor  were  the  street-cleaner,  the 
Board  of  Health,  and  other  destroyers  of  the 
picturesque  in  evidence.  It  was  the  dear  old 
dirty,  often  disreputable,  though  never  dull  East 
Side;  while  now  the  sentimentalist  feels  a  heart 
pang  to  see  the  order,  the  cleanliness,  the  wide 
streets,  the  playgrounds,  the  big  boulevards,  the 
absence  of  indigence  that  have  spoiled  the  most 
interesting  part  of  New  York  City. 

Well  I  remember  the  night,  years  ago,  when 
finding  ourselves  in  Tompkins  Square  we  went 
across  to  Justus  Schwab's  and  joined  an  an 
archist  meeting  in  full  swing.  There  were  no 
bombs,  though  there  was  plenty  of  beer.  A  more 
amiable  and  better-informed  man  than  Schwab 
never  trod  carpet  slippers.  The  discussions  in 
German  and  English  betrayed  a  culture  not 
easily  duplicated  on  the  West  Side  —  wherever 
that  mysterious  territory  really  is.  Before 
Nietzsche's  and  Stirner's  names  were  pronounced 
in  our  lecture-rooms  they  were  familiarly  quoted 
at  Schwab's.  By  request  I  played  The  Mar 
seillaise  and  The  International  Hymn  on  an  old 
piano  —  smoke-stained,  with  rattling  keys  and  a 
cracked  tone  —  which  stood  at  the  rear  upon 
a  platform.  All  was  peace  and  a  flow  of  soul; 

5 


THE   FABULOUS   EAST   SIDE 

yet  the  place  was  raided  before  midnight  and  a 
band  of  indignant,  also  merry,  prisoners  marched 
to  the  police-station.  Naturally  no  one  was  de 
tained  but  Schwab.  The  police  felt  called  upon 
to  arrest  somebody  around  Tompkins  Square 
about  once  a  month.  Anarchist  Outrages  was 
the  usual  newspaper  head-line.  Why  are  the 
Mafia  performers  never  called  anarchs  ?  To-day 
the  Black  Hand  terrorises  a  region  where  the 
bombs  in  the  old  times  were  manufactured  of 
ink  for  the  daily  papers.  They  generally  blow 
themselves  up,  these  anarchists;  but  there  is 
nothing  adventurous  in  having  an  eye  or  a  leg 
blown  away  by  a  Sicilian  you  have  never  seen. 
To  be  arrested  twenty  years  ago  for  the  ro 
mantic  crime  of  playing  The  Marseillaise  on  a 
badly  tuned  piano  —  is  it  any  wonder  I  get  sen 
timental  when  I  think  of  an  East  Side  that  is 
no  more?  Perhaps  the  younger  generation, 
which  Ibsen  described  as  "knocking,"  may  have 
its  nooks  unknown  to  us,  but  the  old  fascina 
tion  has  flown. 

Yet  like  the  war-horse  that  is  put  out  to  grass 
and  rears  when  it  hears  the  tin  dinner  horn,  we 
pricked  ears  on  learning  one  summer  afternoon 
that  up  on  First  Avenue  there  was  a  wonderful 
brew  of  beer  to  be  had.  Pilsner  beer  served 
across  genuine  Bohemian  tables !  How  the  ru 
mour  came  to  my  ears  I've  forgotten,  but  I 
was  not  long  in  sending  its  glad  import  over  the 
telephone.  Remember  that  we  now  dwell  in  a 
city  where  never  before  has  so  much  badly  kept 
6 


THE  FABULOUS  EAST  SIDE 

beer  been  sold.  The  show-places  are  gaudy  and 
Americanised.  Fashionable  shimmers  whose 
fathers  wore  leathern  aprons  and  drank  their 
beer  from  tin  pails  sip  champagne  at  some  noisy 
gilded  cabarets  or  summer  gardens  to  the  bang 
ing  and  scraping  of  fake  gipsy  orchestras. 
Where  are  the  small  old-fashioned  beer  saloons 
of  yesteryear  with  the  sanded  floor,  the  pinochle 
players,  and  the  ripe,  pure  beverage?  Indeed, 
the  German  element  on  the  East  Side  is  in  the 
minority.  At  least  it  seems  so,  for  your  ear 
drums  are  pelted  by  Bohemian,  Yiddish,  Hun, 
Italian,  Russian,  and  other  tongues.  Many 
speak  German,  some  sort  of  German,  but  the 
original  Germans,  the  Urdeutsch  who  came  to 
America  more  than  half  a  century  ago,  are  dead 
or  decaying;  their  sons  and  daughters  and 
grandchildren  have  moved  into  more  fashion 
able  districts  and  shudder  if  you  mention  the 
name  of  Goethe. 

At  first  the  Professor  demurred.  He  is  not 
timid,  but  a  creature  of  habit.  To  tell  him  the 
news  fraught  with  significance  that  you  could 
imbibe  foamy  nectar  while  sitting  on  a  high 
stool  in  front  of  a  bar,  a  real,  pleasant  Bohemian 
facing  you,  your  elbows  occasionally  joggled  by 
visiting  "growlers,"  did  not  appeal  to  my  book 
ish  friend  as  I  had  expected.  I  routed  the 
Painter  den,  and  by  combined  assault  we  carried 
the  Professor  up-town. 

"Get  off,"  I  said,  "at  Seventy-second  Street 
and  walk  across  to  First  Avenue." 


THE  FABULOUS   EAST  SIDE 

We  did  so.  The  prosperity  of  the  neighbour 
hood  after  we  crossed  Third  Avenue  was  posi 
tively  dispiriting.  First  Avenue  we  discovered  to 
be  wider  than  Broadway.  Oddly  enough,  human 
beings  like  ourselves  passed  to  and  fro.  It  was 
the  hottest  hour  of  the  afternoon.  The  world 
in  shirt-sleeves  sat  perched  upon  steps  or  chairs, 
lounged  in  doorways  watching  the  multitudi 
nous  babies  that  rolled  over  the  sidewalk.  The 
east  side  of  the  avenue  was  deserted,  for  the 
sun  beat  upon  the  walls  and  reverberated  blind 
ing  rays.  Of  drunkenness  we  saw  none.  We 
were  in  the  Bohemian  quarter.  At  Sokol  Hall 
on  Seventy-third  Street  there  were  a  few  pool 
games  in  progress;  no  one  stood  at  the  bar.  I 
was  the  spokesman: 

"Isn't  there,"  I  said  in  my  choicest  Marien- 
bad  Bohemian,  "isn't  there  a  remarkable  Pils 
ner  Urquell  somewhere  in  this  neighbourhood?" 

"We  also  sell  Pilsner,"  was  the  Slavic,  eva 
sive  answer  of  a  bartender  with  the  mask  of  a 
tragic  actor. 

"Oh,  he  means  Joe's,"  interrupted  a  sym 
pathetic  bystander.  "Of  course,  Joe  keeps  the 
dandy  beer." 

To  this  there  would  be  but  one  reply.  We 
stood  treat  to  the  house  and  went  to  Kasper's, 
followed  at  a  discreet  distance  by  several  patriots. 

By  this  time  the  Professor's  collar  and  tem 
per  were  running  a  race  for  the  wilting  sweep 
stakes.  Joe  was  pleased  to  see  us.  We  sat  on 
the  celebrated  high  stools  at  the  bar,  and  Gam- 
8 


THE  FABULOUS   EAST  SIDE 

brinus  would  have  been  satisfied.  It  was  the 
essence  of  Pilsen,  Prague,  Marienbad,  all  in  a 
large  glass.  Joe  discoursed.  He  was  proud  that 
we  liked  his  interpretation  of  the  wet  blond 
masterpiece;  but  not  too  proud.  You  can't 
spoil  Joe.  He  is  a  wary  and  travelled  man. 
His  son,  born  here,  he  tells  you  with  ill-con 
cealed  affection,  is  a  violinist,  a  pupil  at  Vienna 
of  Sevic,  the  great  teacher  of  Kubelik,  of  Ko- 
cian !  Who  knows  whether  another  K  may  not 
be  added  to  this  group.  We  drink  his  health 
and  venture  the  hope  that  the  triumph  of  the 
youthful  Kasper  will  not  put  into  the  head  of 
the  father  any  futile  notion  of  retiring.  Art  is 
all  very  well.  Violin  virtuosi  abound;  but  few 
men  there  are  who  know  the  subtle  science  of 
keeping  beer  at  a  proper  temperature. 

"Look  here,"  cried  the  Professor,  "this  is  nice, 
but  how  about  the  East  Side  that  you  are  going 
to  show  us,  the  East  Side  which  is  not  in  exis 
tence?" 

I  suggested  that  we  were  on  the  East  Side, 
up-town,  to  be  sure,  nevertheless  East  Side. 

"I  want  to  see  the  East  Side  of  George  Luks, 
and  please  spare  us  your  antiquated  memories. 
George  Moore  knows  how  to  relate  memories 
of  his  dead  life,  but  you  don't.  Let's  be  going." 
It  was  the  Professor  in  his  most  didactic  mood. 

The  Painter  who  was  comfortably  anchored, 
sighed  profoundly.  He  didn't  need  to  leave  a 
snug  harbour  to  see  the  East  Side  of  George 
Luks.  To  my  remonstrances  and  heated  asser- 


tion  that  there  was  no  more  East  Side,  that  it 
was  only  a  fable,  the  Professor  bristled  up  like 
the  Celt  he  is.  "What,  then,  is  the  use  of 
writing  about  a  thing  that  no  longer  exists? 
Or,  as  Israel  Zangwill  asks  in  the  form  of  a 
magnificent  pun,  'What's  the  use  of  being  a 
countess  if  you  have  nothing  to  count.'"  This 
was  too  much,  and  in  less  than  an  hour  we  were 
threading  the  intricacies  of  Grand  Street,  head 
ing  for  the  region  of  socialistic  rainbows. 

"They're  off!"  chuckled  the  Painter  as  he 
drew  forth  his  sketching  pad  and  pencil. 

After  a  tolerably  long  tramp  we  turned  south. 
The  street  was  narrow  and  not  too  odorous. 
High  buildings  on  either  side  were  pierced  by 
numerous  windows  from  which  hung  frowzy 
ladies,  usually  with  babies  at  their  bosoms;  the 
fire-escapes  were  crowded  with  bedclothes,  the 
middle  of  the  street  filled  with  quarrelling  chil 
dren.  The  national  game  on  a  miniature  scale 
was  in  progress,  and  on  the  sidewalks  when  the 
push-cart  men  permitted,  encouraging  voices 
called  aloud  in  Yiddish  to  the  baseball  heroes. 
I  don't  know  what  they  said,  but  I  caught  such 
phrases  as  these:  "Yakie  !  Schlemil !  machen  Sie 
dot  first  base !  Esel !  Oh,  du ! "  And  the  little 
Jacob  toiled  up  the  street  and  down  again, 
sprawling  over  garbage-cans,  upsetting  two  girls 
dressed  in  resplendent  ribbons  for  Shabbas,  fi 
nally  touching  an  old  basket  and  getting  full 
in  his  smudged  features  a  soft  tomato.  "Aus !" 
yelled  the  umpire  who  was  immediately  kicked 
10 


THE   FABULOUS   EAST  SIDE 

in  the  stomach.  "Aus!  Out!"  came  in  deliri 
ous  tones  from  a  dancing  mass  of  men  —  Jewish 
men  with  the  traditional  whiskers,  brown  straw 
hats,  and  alpaca  coats.  It  was  startling  even 
to  the  Professor. 

"There  is  your  twentieth-century  East  Side 
for  you,"  I  began,  but  the  Painter  watched 
other  things. 

"Yet  they  think  Luks  is  too  realistic,  don't 
they?  Just  look  at  those  girls."  He  pointed 
out  a  red-headed  Irish  girl  clutching  a  blonde 
girl,  unmistakably  a  German  blonde,  who  were 
both  dreamily  waltzing  to  the  faded  tune  of 
The  Merry  Widow. 

Music  which  we  hurry  from  across  town  is 
near  the  East  River  music  the  conqueror.  It  mel 
lows  the  long  hours  of  dry,  dusty  summer  days, 
and  it  sets  moving  in  earnest  if  not  graceful 
rhythms  the  legs  of  the  little  ones.  Suddenly 
the  organ  began  a  gallop.  Off  whisked  the  girls 
—  Delia  and  Marike  were  their  names,  we  were 
later  informed  —  off  they  went  like  two  aban 
doned  spielers  disguised  as  children  of  poverty. 
What  movement !  What  fire !  The  blonde 
with  her  silvery  locks  stamped  and  whirled  off 
her  feet  the  trim  Irish  girl  with  the  dark  red 
curls. 

"Are  you  chaps  never  coming  along?"  asked 
the  Professor.  "It  will  be  night  soon,  and  we 
haven't  seen  anything  yet." 

"He's  afraid  Mouquin's  will  close  before  he 
gets  back  to  civilisation,"  sardonically  whis- 
ii 


THE  FABULOUS   EAST   SIDE 

pered  the  Painter.  Luckily  the  Professor  didn't 
hear. 

The  cafe  was  not  well  lighted.  At  the  marble 
tables  stooped  the  bent  backs  of  old  men,  men 
who  wore  curls  over  their  ears,  whose  hats  were 
only  removed  at  bedtime.  They  played  chess 
in  the  dusk  and  drank  coffee  at  intervals,  re 
garding  their  neighbours  suspiciously.  Rem 
brandt  would  have  admired  the  dim,  misty 
corners  where  on  musty  divans  he  could  have 
discerned  a  head,  partly  in  shadow,  a  high  light 
on  the  bridge  of  the  nose,  or  ringers  snapping 
with  exultation  in  a  sudden  shaft  of  sunlight 
that  came  through  a  window  opening  on  the 
west.  Groups  of  two  or  three  hovered  about 
the  players.  The  stillness  was  punctuated  by 
street  cries  and  the  occasional  rumbling  of 
that  ramshackle  horse-car  the  sight  of  which 
sends  your  wits  wool-gathering  back  to  the 
'go's. 

"Wake  up,"  urged  the  Painter.  "I'm  going 
to  sketch  that  table  in  the  corner;  the  two  old 
birds  are  watching  each  other  as  if  plunder  were 
hid  somewhere.  You  know  they  are  afraid  to 
drink  beer  because  a  drop  too  much  might  lose 
them  a  move.  So  they  stick  to  coffee."  He 
went  away,  the  Professor  following. 

"Is  your  friend  a  painter  or  only  one  of  those 
newspaper  artists  who  worry  us  so  much?" 

I  turned.  Beside  me  sat  a  mythical  old  fel 
low,  white-haired,  his  coat  buttoned  to  his  neck, 
no  shirt,  evidently,  and  the  hand  which  plucked 
12 


THE  FABULOUS  EAST  SIDE 

his  beard  as  white  as  a  girl's  —  a  girl  who  has 
white  hands,  I  mean. 

"You  look  like  the  Ancient  Mariner,"  I  said, 
"or  a  Hebraic  Walt  Whitman." 

He  smiled.  "I  may  be  both  for  all  you 
know;  but  you  haven't  answered  my  ques 
tion." 

He  inclined  a  benevolent  ear.  I  informed 
him  of  our  mission  and  of  my  disappointment. 
Again  the  smile,  a  smile  as  ancient  as  the  world 
and  as  fresh  as  to-morrow. 

"It  is  this  way,"  he  confided,  and  his  deep- 
set  eyes  sparkled.  "You  are  an  idealist.  Wait 
until  you  are  seasoned  by  eighty  years.  I  am 
eighty,  and  I've  lived  on  the  so-called  East 
Side  for  sixty  of  my  years.  I  speak  English 
better  than  I  do  Yiddish,  yet  to  earn  my  bread 
I  write  Yiddish  plays,  stories,  love-letters,  and 
would  preach  if  my  voice  would  hold  out.  I 
am  an  ex-rabbi.  You  know  what  a  rabbi  is; 
you  are  old  enough.  An  ex-anything  is  a  mis 
take —  particularly  an  ex-dramatic  critic  or  an 
ex-president." 

"You  must  have  seen  many  changes  in  your 
life  over  here,"  I  ventured. 

"My  friend,  I  have  seen  many  changes,  yet 
nothing  changes.  We  are  born,  live  more  or 
less  unhappily,  and  die.  That's  all.  There  are 
more  of  my  co-religionists  now  than  there  were 
when  we  first  went  up  the  Bowery.  Then  they 
pulled  my  beard  and  threw  stones  at  us.  Now 
we  live  in  houses  built,  perhaps,  with  those  very 


THE  FABULOUS  EAST  SIDE 

stones;  certainly  built  by  our  forbearance.  We 
live- 

He  prosed  on.  He  bored  me,  this  octogena 
rian  who  resembled  both  the  Ancient  Mariner 
and  Walt  Whitman.  I  stopped  his  rambling 
by  asking:  "I  suppose  the  Socialists  and  settle 
ment-workers  have  greatly  improved  the  East 
Side?" 

He  sat  up  and  roared  like  an  approaching 
earthquake.  The  chess-players  looked  at  him, 
shrugged  shoulders,  and  again  tackled  their 
problems.  The  Professor  deserted  the  Painter 
and  tiptoed  out  to  us.  The  Painter  never 
budged. 

"Socialists!  What  are  they?  They  have 
stirred  up  my  people  with  empty  words,  fine 
phrases.  Oh,  the  dreamers  of  the  Ghetto. 
This  idea  of  an  earthly  paradise  you  may  trace 
back  to  the  Persians,  to  the  Babylonians,  per 
haps  to  the  Sumerians.  We  are  always  looking 
for  the  coming  of  him  who  will  rescue  us.  We 
are  the  idealistic  leaven  in  whatever  national 
bakery  we  find  ourselves.  You  Americans  are 
smarter.  When  the  dollars  arrive  you  are  satis 
fied;  it  is  your  heaven  on  earth;  but  for  the 
poor,  who  know  nothing,  have  nothing,  golden 
words  fill  them  with  hope.  Better  prisons  than 
those  slimy  deceptions  of  socialism.  Yes,  our 
girls  marry  rich  Goyem,  rich  gentiles  —  let  a 
woman  alone  for  finding  a  tub  of  butter  —  and 
then  they  come  down  here,  some  to  live  and 
work  —  their  tongue  —  and  tell  more  lies  to 


THE  FABULOUS  EAST  SIDE 

dreamers.  Ach !  it  is  awful.  And  your  settle 
ment-workers,  the  white  mice,  we  call  them. 
They  mean  well,  but  they  are  generally  mis 
guided  busybodies.  They  pry,  pry,  pry,  and 
ask  insulting  questions.  Even  if  we  are  poor 
we  are  humans;  we  have  feelings  too.  If  a 
Jew  is  pious  they  give  him  a  New  Testament. 
They  bore  or  frighten  our  wives,  though  they 
do  a  lot  of  good,  helping  the  hungry  poor.  Yet 
children  go  to  school  hungry.  Don't  believe  al 
together  in  those  sights  of  big  new  tenements, 
playgrounds,  public  schools;  there  is  a  lot  of 
misery  on  your  renovated  East  Side  that  your 
philanthropists  never  reach,  that  those  funny 
sociological  students  never  see." 

I  rose. 

"Break  away!"  said  the  Painter.  "I  caught 
the  old  prophet  in  my  note-book  while  he  was 
gassing.  Let's  get  out  of  here." 

I  bade  farewell  to  the  venerable  Jeremiah. 
He  looked  sadly  after  us.  Not  a  drink,  not  a 
smoke  —  nothing !  And  all  that  wisdom  dissi 
pated  into  thin  air,  or  into  ears  that  heeded  not. 
I  was  glad  when  we  passed  through  the  narrow 
doorway  obstructed  by  a  wretched  rubber  plant 
—  or  was  it  a  hat-rack  ? 

Without  the  sky  seemed  rolled  back  from 
the  roofs  and  was  a  deep  blue  transfused  by  the 
citron-tinted  afterglow  of  a  setting  sun.  On  the 
street  were  the  fuliginous  oil-lamps  of  peddlers. 
The  din  was  terrific;  it  mingled  with  the  smell  of 
fish,  fruit,  and  grease.  A  motley  mob  jostled 

15 


THE  FABULOUS  EAST  SIDE 

us  from  the  pavements;  the  middle  was  the 
safest  roadway.  An  old  woman  who  sat  comb 
ing  her  thin  grey  hair  directed  us  westward; 
we  thought  we  had  lost  our  bearings.  Slat 
ternly  females  chaffered  with  the  Jewish  and 
Italian  push-cart  men.  Their  gestures  were  not 
unlike;  southern  Europe  and  remotest  Russia 
employ  the  sign  language,  a  voluble  digital  lan 
guage  it  is.  Shrieks  of  laughter  and  dismay  at 
tracted  us  farther  up.  A  dwarf  with  a  big 
head  and  dressed  in  the  uniform  of  the  Salva 
tion  Army  was  hemmed  in  by  half  a  hundred 
teasing  children  of  all  nationalities.  I  assure 
you  that  I  saw  white  girls  with  Chinese  slitted 
eyes,  little  Irish  girls  with  the  Hebraic  nose 
curve,  negro  boys  with  straight  hair  and  blue 
eyes.  A  vast  cauldron  —  every  race  bubbles  and 
boils  and  fuses  on  the  East  Side.  The  children 
are  happy.  They  are  noisy  and  devilish  in  their 
energy.  They  howled  at  the  dwarf,  "  Pee  Wee ! " 
He  was  impassive  and  distributed  circulars.  In 
front  of  a  kosher  fowl  shop  another  small  cy 
clone  was  in  progress.  The  place  was  locked, 
but  in  the  gaslight  we  could  detect  hundreds  of 
chickens  hopping  over  the  counter  and  shelves, 
and  the  joy  their  antics  gave  the  little  ones 
outside  was  worth  a  dozen  Christmas  panto 
mimes. 

"To  the  Hall  of  Genius,  that's  where  we  are 
heading,  boys  !"  answered  the  Painter  to  a  query 
from  the  Professor. 

I  had  now  become  the  crusty  member  of  the 
16 


THE  FABULOUS  EAST  SIDE 

crowd.  I  was  tired.  The  coffee  at  the  chess 
cafe  had  given  me  a  headache;  besides,  things 
were  not  exactly  going  my  way.  I  came  out 
on  this  expedition  prepared  to  scoff,  and  while 
I  had  not  remained  to  pray,  nevertheless  was 
I  disappointed.  So  I  irritably  inquired:  "What 
Hall  of  Genius?  What  new  pipe-dream  is 
this?" 

Good-temperedly  he  returned:  "It  is  a  pipe- 
dream,  and  before  we  go  up  Second  Avenue  I 
want  you  to  see  what  you  can't  see  anywhere 
outside  Paris." 

"The  Latin  Quarter?"  I  sneered. 

"No;  Montmartre.  Now  just  hustle  along, 
please.  It  is  getting  late  and  I'm  hungry." 

As  we  entered  the  hall  the  buzzing  of  voices 
was  almost  deafening.  At  least  a  hundred 
tables  were  crowded  with  men  and  women. 
On  the  balconies  were  more  tables.  Every  one 
was  drinking  either  coffee  or  beer;  the  men 
smoked  pipes,  cigarettes,  with  here  and  there  a 
few  cigars.  The  odour  was  appalling.  I  never 
knew  Mother  Earth  grew  such  poisonous,  weedy 
tobaccos.  We  found  seats  not  far  from  the 
door. 

"It's  easier  to  escape,"  remarked  our  guide, 
philosopher,  and  friend,  "and  it's  easier  to  point 
out  the  celebrities." 

"What  celebrities?"  faintly  inquired  the  Pro 
fessor,  who  was  almost  a  physical  wreck. 

" Celebrities  ! n  was  the  response.  "Well,  I 
should  say  so.  There's  enough  brains  and  ge- 

17 


THE   FABULOUS   EAST  SIDE 

nius  under  this  roof  at  the  present  moment  to 
burn  up  our  universities,  our  musical  conserva 
tories,  our  paint-pot  academies"  —here  the 
Painter  paused,  I  fancied  maliciously  —  "our 
law  courts." 

"But  why,  why  haven't  we  heard  of  these 
transcendent  individuals?"  I  interposed. 

"Over  there,"  continued  the  Painter,  not 
heeding  my  question,  "over  there  is  a  young 
fellow  who  has  written  the  best  short  story 
since  Edgar  Poe.  It's  so  good  no  one  dreams 
of  printing  it." 

"There  are  a  hundred  like  him  who  have 
written  the  best  story  since  Poe  —  only  they 
hug  the  Great  White  Way,"  hinted  the  Pro 
fessor  cynically. 

The  Painter  gave  him  a  sour  look. 

"Never  mind.  I'm  telling  this  story.  The 
fellow  I  mean  is  bald.  That's  why  he  keeps 
his  hat  on.  But  the  remnants  of  his  hair  are 
curly." 

"I  dare  him  to  remove  his  hat."  The  Pro 
fessor  it  was  who  spoke.  I  kicked  him  under 
the  table. 

"That  fat  youth  yonder,"  tranquilly  resumed 
the  Painter,  "is  a  second  Ernest  Lawson.  He 
never  saw  a  Lawson  landscape  because  he  never 
got  farther  than  Second  Avenue.  His  clothes, 
as  you  see,  are  not  suitable;  but  if  he  ever 
starts  in  painting  as  he  can  ["But  won't," 
cruelly  intercalated  the  Professor]  —  then  he 
may  join  the  Academy." 
18 


THE  FABULOUS   EAST  SIDE 

"Fudge,"  said  I. 

"Fudge  or  not,  he  is  a  genius.  He  works, 
when  he  does  work,  in  a  carriage  factory.  His 
friend  is  the  grandest  dramatist  of  the  age, 
without  a  Broadway  production.  It's  a  pity 
he  can  only  write  in  Bulgarian.  The  woman 
sitting  near  him  has  Duse,  Bernhardt,  and  Na- 
zimova  beaten  to  a  pulp  as  actresses." 

The  Professor  stood  up  wearily. 

"Now  I'm  going,"  he  said.  "I  suppose  you 
will  show  us  next  the  most  extraordinary  com 
poser  on  the  planet." 

"Precisely,"  acquiesced  the  Painter.  "To 
your  left  is  a  Russian  pianist  who  has  the  charm 
of  Paderewski,  the  magic  of  Joseffy,  the  tech 
nique  of  Rosenthal,  and  the  caprice  of  De  Pach- 
mann." 

We  paid  the  reckoning.  Catching  our  waiter 
by  his  tin  badge  I  asked  him  as  my  friends  moved 
streetward:  "Who  are  those  folks  at  the  next 
table  ?  Are  they  poets  or  painters  or  musicians  ? ' ' 

"Nichts!  Your  friend  was  having  fun  with 
you,"  answered  the  waiter.  "  They  are  nearly  all 
cloakmakers,  and  work  in  the  neighbourhood." 

"  Oh,  hollow  East  Side !  Oh,  humbugPainter ! " 
I  ejaculated  when  we  reached  Second  Avenue  and 
its  cool,  well-lighted  perspectives.  The  Painter 
smiled. 

"I  faked  you  a  bit  of  the  East  Side  you  writ 
ing  fellows  are  always  looking  for.  Now  for 
dinner." 

We  ate  paprika-seasoned  food  to  the  clangour 
19 


THE  FABULOUS  EAST  SIDE 

of  the  usual  gipsy  band  that  never  saw  the 
Hungarian  Putzta.  It  was  at  one  of  the  tinsel 
Bohemias  so  plentifully  scattered  along  the 
avenue.  I  was  better  satisfied  than  earlier  in 
the  evening,  for  I  had  proved  that  the  old  East 
Side  was  fabulous.  I  said  as  much,  and  was 
called  ungrateful. 

"Isn't  it  interesting,  anyhow?"  demanded  in 
unison  Professor  and  Painter. 

We  were  about  to  part  at  the  corner  of  the 
street.  It  was  midnight.  Suddenly  a  thin, 
scared  voice  asked  us  to  buy  flowers.  The  girl 
was  small.  She  wore  a  huge  shawl,  and  on  her 
head  was  a  shapeless  hat  over  which  lolled  queer 
plants.  But  that  shawl !  It  was  fit  for  her  fat 
grandmother  and  must  have  weighed  heavily 
upon  her  frail  shoulders.  Her  features  were  not 
easy  to  distinguish;  her  eyes  seemed  mere  empty 
sockets. 

The  Painter  looked  at  her. 

"What  you  got  under  that  shawl?"  he  sharply 
questioned. 

The  wretched  child  shifted  her  feet.  ' '  A  pussy 
cat  I  found  on  Second  Street.  I'm  taking  it 
home  fer  me  sisters." 

We  bought  her  ridiculous  flowers  and  she 
disappeared. 

"A  regular  Luks,"  I  observed. 

"A  Luks  all  right,  all  right,"  chimed  in  the 
Painter. 

We  went  home. 


20 


II 

THE  LUNGS 

I 

A  BROAD  chest  usually  means  healthy  lungs. 
Now,  Manhattan  Island  is  notoriously  narrow- 
chested.  Her  scanty  space  across  is  not  re 
deemed  by  greater  length.  Crowded  with  hu 
mans  and  their  houses,  there  is  consequently 
little  space  for  the  expansion  of  her  normal 
breathing  powers.  Her  lungs,  i.  e.,  her  parks, 
are  contracted  and  not  enough  of  them;  there 
never  will  be.  But  more  than  some  people 
think. 

New  Yorkers,  even  the  most  convinced  cock 
neys,  know  little  of  their  city,  or  of  its  lungs. 
Not  only  provincial,  but  parochial,  they  are 
only  acquainted  with  the  square  or  little  park 
that  adorns  —  it's  a  poor  park  that  doesn't 
bring  a  sense  of  adornment  —  their  native  ward. 
Imagine  my  amazement  when  I  learned  after 
nearly  thirty  years'  residence  here  that  there 
were  one  hundred  and  eighty-two  parks  in  the 
five  boroughs.  I  read  it  in  a  newspaper  and 
couldn't  understand  why  I  hadn't  discovered  the 
fact,  for  I've  always  been  a  rambler  and  my 
happy  hunting-ground  usually  has  been  the  East 
Side. 

21 


THE  LUNGS 

However,  seeing  is  believing,  and  last  summer, 
with  my  eyes  made  innocent  by  several  years' 
residence  in  Germany,  Austria,  Holland,  Bel 
gium,  France,  and  England,  I  determined  to 
verify  certain  vague  suspicions  that  had  been 
assailing  my  consciousness:  that  perhaps  New 
York  was  not  inferior  in  attractiveness  to  Lon 
don,  Paris,  Vienna,  Berlin,  or  Brussels.  Per 
haps  many  who  go  down  to  the  sea  in  steamers, 
their  pockets  filled  with  letters  of  credit,  might  be 
equally  shocked  when  confronted  by  the  sights 
and  sounds  of  Manhattan.  Perhaps  —  but  let 
us  start  on  a  little  tour  into  intimate  New  York, 
without  a  megaphone  or  a  ready-made  enthu 
siasm;  above  all,  let  us  be  meek  and  avoid 
boastful  rhetoric;  also  dodge  statistics.  Go  to 
the  guide-books,  thou  sluggard,  for  the  latter! 

When  a  writer  tackles  such  a  big  theme  as 
New  York  he  as  a  rule  fetches  a  deep  breath 
in  the  lower  bay,  steams  as  far  as  Staten  Island, 
and  then  lets  loose  the  flood-gate  of  adjectives. 
How  the  city  looks  as  you  enter  it  is  the  con 
ventional  point  of  attack.  I  am  sorry  to  say 
that  whenever  I  have  returned  from  Europe, 
the  first  peep  of  lower  Manhattan,  with  its 
craggy  battlements,  its  spires  splintering  the 
very  firmament,  and  the  horrid  Statue  of  Lib 
erty,  all  these  do  so  work  on  my  spirit  that  I 
feel  like  repining.  Not  because  I  am  home 
again  —  not,  my  friend,  because  the  spectacle 
is  an  uplifting  one,  but,  shame  that  I  must  con 
fess  the  truth,  because  my  return  means  back  to 

22 


THE  LUNGS 

toil,  back  to  the  newspaper  forge,  there  to  re 
sume  my  old  job  of  wordsmith.  Why,  the  very 
symbol  of  liberty,  that  stupid  giant  female,  with 
her  illuminating  torch,  becomes  a  monster  of 
hated  mien,  her  torch  a  club  that  ominously 
threatens  us:  Get  to  work !  Get  to  work ! 

Therefore  I'll  begin  at  Battery  Park,  leaving 
the  waterways,  the  arteries  and  veins  of  the 
city,  for  a  future  disquisition. 

The  image  stamped  on  my  memory  is  the  re 
verse  of  the  immobile.  A  plastic  picture.  The 
elevated  roads  debouching  here  are  ugly,  but 
characteristic.  I'm  afraid  I  can't  see  in  our 
city  anything  downright  ugly  —  it  is  never  an 
absolute  for  me;  as  Dostoievsky  said,  there  are 
no  ugly  women.  The  elevated  road  structure 
is  hideous  if  aesthetically  considered,  and  that  is 
precisely  the  way  it  should  not  be  considered. 
It  rolls  thousands  daily  to  this  end  of  the  town; 
they  usually  take  the  ferries  or  subways,  a  few 
stroll  under  the  scanty  trees,  or  visit  the  Aqua 
rium,  so  we  must  be  critically  charitable,  too. 

Oh,  how  tired  I  am  of  being  told  that  Jenny 
Lind  made  her  debut  in  this  same  Castle  Gar 
den,  "presented"  by  the  late  Phineas  T.  Bar- 
num!  Wasn't  it  a  historical  fort  before  it 
became  a  hall  of  immigrants  and  the  abode  of 
the  fishes?  This  much  may  be  said  for  the 
latter  —  it  is  a  real  aquarium,  and,  excepting 
the  absence  of  an  octopus  or  two,  the  collection 
rivals  those  at  Brighton,  England  (where  there 
are  octopi);  Naples,  Hamburg,  and  elsewhere. 

23 


THE  LUNGS 

More  exciting  than  the  fish,  the  seal,  or  the  por 
poises  are  the  people.  Thousands  elbow  through 
the  rather  narrow  aisles  and  stare  as  solemnly 
at  the  finny  inhabitants  as  they  are  stared  at 
in  return.  The  sightseeing  coaches  give  their 
passengers  a  quarter  of  an  hour's  grace  to  "do" 
the  show,  while  ragged  boys  dance  about  them, 
obsequiously  pilot  them,  jnock  them,  quite  after 
the  manner  of  the  ragged  boy  on  the  Marina 
at  Naples. 

A  veritable  boon  is  this  open  Battery  Park 
when  the  gang  of  wage-earners  have  fled  the 
lower  reaches  of  the  city,  when  the  dishes  have 
been  washed,  when  the  janitors  and  caretakers 
of  the  tall  buildings  bring  their  wives  and  chil 
dren  to  catch  the  breeze  from  the  bay.  On 
moonlit  nights  there  are  few  situations  more  ro 
mantic.  Here  is  freedom  for  the  eye,  for  the 
lungs.  There  are  not  enough  benches,  but  the 
walking  is  good,  and  to  stand  on  the  edge  of 
the  "wharf"  and  watch  the  bright  eyes  of  fer 
ries,  the  blazing  eyes  of  the  Jersey  and  Brooklyn 
shores,  and  the  eyes  of  Staten  Island  as  the  un 
stable  floor  of  the  water  mirrors  (a  cracked 
mirror)  the  moonlight  and  distorts  the  tiny 
flames  about  it,  is  to  enjoy  a  spectacle  fit  for 
men  and  women  who  are  not  afraid  to  love 
their  birthplace.  I  like  it  better  when  the 
weather  has  a  nipping  freshness  and  the  day  is 
grey-coloured  and  full  of  the  noises  of  broken 
waters,  and  the  cry  of  birds. 

The  seamy  side  of  Battery  Park  is  the  poor 
24 


THE  LUNGS 

castaway  who  has  sought  its  coolness  after  a 
hot  day  of  panhandling.  But  —  given  a  cer 
tain  amount  of  leeway  — •  he  is  harmless.  When 
a  woman,  the  case  assumes  the  pathetic.  Beg 
ging  is  semisecretly  indulged  in.  You  drop 
your  nickel  and  escape.  If  it  be  daytime  you 
make  for  South  Street  to  pay  that  long-deferred 
visit  to  Coenties  Slip  and  Jeannette  Park. 

Perhaps  you  have  seen  C.  F.  W.  Mielatz's 
coloured  etching  of  the  slip;  if  you  have,  the 
optical  repercussion  will  be  all  the  stronger  when 
looking  at  the  place  itself.  The  fine  old  musty 
flavour  of  the  slip,  the  canal-boats  near  the  little 
Jeannette  Park  —  a  backwater  with  its  stranded 
humanity  stolidly  waiting  for  something  to  turn 
up  —  and  the  lofty,  lowering  warehouses  bring 
memories  of  London  docks;  docks  where  slunk 
Rogue  Riderhood  in  search  of  rum  after  he  had 
landed  his  dead  cargo;  docks  from  which  sailed, 
still  sail,  wooden  ships  with  real  wooden  masts, 
canvas  sails,  and  sailors  of  flesh  and  blood, 
bound  on  some  secret  errand  to  southern  seas 
where  under  the  large  few  stars  they  may  mu 
tiny  and  cut  the  captain's  throat;  or  else  return 
to  live  immortally  in  fascinating  legends  of  Jo 
seph  Conrad.  I  almost  became  sentimental  over 
Coenties  Slip,  probably  because  Mielatz  had 
etched  it,  and  also  because  I  had  been  reading 
Conrad.  Art  always  reacts  on  nature,  and  the 
reactions  may  be  perfectly  sincere. 

However,  I  thought  it  time  to  ask  a  policeman 
the  direction  of  Corlears  Park.  He  didn't  know. 

25 


THE  LUNGS 

No  one  knew,  until  an  old  chap  who  smelt  of 
of  fish  and  whisky  said:  "It's  Cor-lears,  you 
want?"  I  had  misplaced  the  accent,  and  the 
ear  of  the  average  longshoreman  in  South  Street 
for  quantity  would  please  a  college  professor  of 
Greek. 

I  went  my  winding  way,  finally  enlightened. 
I  like  the  London  bobby,  for  he  is  obliging  and 
instructive,  but  I  also  like  our  policeman.  He 
is  gruffer  than  his  English  contemporary  —  a 
shy  sort  of  gruffness.  I  found  myself  at  Canal 
Street  and  the  Bowery  —  I  don't  know  why  — 
and  was  told  to  continue  eastward.  If  I  had 
taken  a  Grand  Street  car  to  the  ferry  my  journey 
would  have  been  simplified,  but  then  I  should 
have  missed  East  Broadway  and  a  lot  of  sights, 
of  which  more  anon. 

I  dived  into  the  east.  It  was  a  noisy,  nar 
row  lane  rather  than  a  street,  and  the  inhabi 
tants,  mostly  babies,  were  sprawling  over  the 
sidewalks.  Often  I  followed  the  line  of  the  gut 
ter.  Then  I  reached  an  open  space  and  was 
disappointed.  It  was  Corlears  Park,  and  the 
absence  of  shade  was  painful.  This  lack  of  trees 
is  a  fault  to  be  found  in  the  majority  of  mu 
nicipal  parks  and  playgrounds.  Night,  if  you 
don't  feel  too  scared  or  lonely,  is  the  proper 
time  to  enjoy  the  Hook.  The  view  of  the  East 
River  is  unimpeded.  The  water  is  crowded 
with  craft.  A  breeze  always  fans  one.  Women 
and  children,  principally  Italians  and  Jews,  sit 
or  walk.  Cats  are  friendly.  So  is  the  small 
26 


THE  LUNGS 

boy  who  knocks  off  your  straw  tile  with  his 
stick.  A  venerable  steamboat,  rotting  and  dis 
mal,  the  relic  of  a  once  proud  excursion  career, 
is  warped  to  the  wharf.  It  has  flowers  on  its 
upper  deck,  and  pale,  sick  people  sit  on  the 
lower.  You  are  informed  by  the  inevitable 
busybody  who  traipses  after  strangers  that  the 
old  boat  is  now  for  tuberculosis  patients,  living 
or  dying,  in  the  neighbourhood.  What  an  end 
ing  for  man  and  machine  !  Hecker's  huge  struc 
ture  dominates  the  upper  end  of  the  park,  as 
does  Hoe's  building  over  in  Grand  Street.  The 
chief  thing  is  the  cleanliness  and  spaciousness. 
The  same  may  be  found  at  Rutgers  Park,  but 
without  a  water-front,  always  an  added  attrac 
tion. 

Tompkins  Square  stirred  memories.  It  lies 
between  Seventh  and  Tenth  Streets  and  Ave 
nues  A  and  B.  When  I  first  remember  it,  it  was 
also  called  the  Weisse- Garten,  and  no  foreign 
nationality  but  German  lived  on  its  arid  fringes. 

The  anarchists  of  those  days  gathered  at  Jus 
tus  Schwab's,  whose  saloon  was  on  First  Street. 
There  I  first  became  acquainted  with  Johann 
Most,  an  intelligent  and  stubborn  man,  if  ever 
there  was  one,  and  other  "reds,"  the  majority  of 
them  now  dead.  I  remember,  in  1887,  the  fu 
neral  parade  in  commemoration  of  the  anarchists 
executed  in  Chicago  because  of  the  Haymarket 
affair.  A  sombre  procession  of  proletarians  with 
muffled  drums,  black  flags,  and  dense  masses  of 
humans.  I  didn't  go  home  that  night.  To  my 
27 


ilIE  LUNGS 

surprise  I  found  the  old-fashioned  bird  store  — 
where  they  once  sold  folding  bird-cages  (col 
lapsible)  —  in  the  same  place,  on  Avenue  A,  near 
Seventh  Street.  The  park  is  mightily  improved. 
There  are  more  trees,  and  also  playgrounds  for 
boys  and  girls,  a  band-stand,  and  refreshment 
pavilions. 

I  entered.  On  the  benches  I  found  "lobbies" 
of  old  men,  Germans,  Israelites  for  the  most 
part.  They  were  very  old,  very  active,  con 
tented,  and  loquacious.  They  settled  at  a 
"sitzung"  the  affairs  of  the  nation,  keeping  all 
the  while  a  sharp  lookout  on  the  antics  of  their 
grandchildren,  curly-haired,  bright-eyed  kiddies 
who  rolled  on  the  grass.  The  boys  and  girls 
literally  made  the  welkin  ring  with  their  games, 
in  the  enclosures.  They  seemed  healthy  and 
happy.  There  are  vice  and  poverty  on  the  East 
Side  —  and  the  West  —  but  there  are  also  youth 
and  decency  and  pride.  I  should  say  that 
optimism  was  the  rule.  Naturally,  in  summer, 
even  poverty  wears  its  rue  with  a  difference.  I 
saw  little  save  cheerfulness,  and  heard  much 
music-making  by  talented  children. 

The  Tenth  Street  side  of  Tompkins  Square 
reminds  me  of  upper  Stuyvesant  Square.  It  is 
positively  well-to-do,  many  doctors  and  dentists 
hanging  out  their  shingles  on  the  quaint,  pleas 
ant-looking  brick  houses.  A  very  old  German 
Lutheran  meeting-house  is  at  the  corner  of  Ninth 
Street  and  Avenue  B,  and  one  block  lower  is 
St.  Bridget's  Church.  Not  afar  is  a  synagogue 
28 


THE  LUNGS 

or  "Shool,"  as  they  call  it,  and  you  may  catch 
a  glimpse  of  the  stately  Church  of  the  Holy 
Redeemer  on  Third  Street  near  Avenue  A,  with 
its  cartridge-shaped  spire  (easily  seen  from  Brook 
lyn  Bridge),  that  suggests  shooting  the  soul  to 
heaven  if  you  are  willing. 

Time  was  when  the  Felsenkeller,  at  the  foot 
of  Fifty-seventh  Street,  East  River,  was  an  agree 
able  spot  of  summer  nights.  It  was  an  open-air 
cafe,  and  while  sipping  your  beverage  you  could 
watch  the  wheels  of  passing  steamboats.  It  ex 
ists  no  longer.  You  must  go  up  to  East  River 
Park,  at  Eighty-sixth  Street  and  the  river,  or  to 
Jefferson  Park,  opposite  Ward's  Island,  to  enjoy 
the  water.  There  are  little  grassy  hills,  with 
rocks,  at  the  former  park  that  give  you  the  illu 
sion  of  nature. 

I  can't  say  much  in  favor  of  Union  Square 
—  now  hopelessly  encumbered  with  debris  — 
or  of  Gramercy  Park,  locked  to  the  public  (you 
are  permitted  the  barren  enjoyment  of  gazing  at 
the  bleak  enclosure),  or  of  Madison  Square,  with 
its  wonderful  surroundings.  These  be  places 
familiar.  Nor  do  I  care  to  drag  you  over  to 
Hudson  Park,  on  the  West  Side,  to  Abingdon 
Square,  to  Chelsea,  De  Witt  Clinton,  Seward, 
to  other  parks  of  another  kind  duplicated 
everywhere,  even  to  the  scarcity  of  foliage  and 
benches.  Mount  Morris  Park,  at  One  Hundred 
and  Twenty-fourth  Street  and  Madison  Avenue, 
was,  a  few  decades  ago,  not  so  crowded  as  it  is 
to-day.  The  hegira  up-town  has  made  it  as  pop- 
29 


THE  LUNGS 

ulous  as  Tompkins  Square.  And  not  so  pleasant. 
A  little  cafe,  with  a  back  garden  on  the  west 
side  of  the  square,  was  once  a  favourite  resort 
years  ago.  Schmierkase  and  pumpernickel,  and 
—  Tempus  fugit ! 

II 

I  positively  refuse  to  sing  the  praises  of  Cen 
tral  Park  —  which  was  laid  out  in  1857  (avaunt, 
statistics !)  —  simply  because  that  once  haughty 
and  always  artificial  dame  is  fast  becoming  an 
old  lady  in  plain  decadence.  Who  has  not  sung 
her  praises !  Hardly  a  park,  rather  a  cluster  of 
graceful  arboreal  arabesques,  which  surprise  and 
charm,  Central  Park  is,  nevertheless,  moribund, 
and  all  the  king's  horses  and  all  the  king's  .men 
can  never  set  her  up  again  in  her  former  estate. 
The  city  itself  has  assassinated  her,  not  by  official 
neglect,  but  by  the  proximity  of  stone,  steel,  and 
brick,  which  is  slowly  robbing  her  of  her  suste 
nance  of  earth,  air,  and  moisture. 

In  the  first  flush  of  spring  or  a  few  early 
summer  days  she  wears  her  old  smile  of  bright 
ness.  How  welcome  the  leafy  arch  of  the  Mall, 
how  impressive,  how  "European"  the  vista  of 
the  Bethesda  fountain,  the  terrace,  and  the  lake; 
how  pleasing  it  is  to  sit  under  the  arbour  of  the 
Casino  piazza  and  watch  the  golden  girls  and 
slim  gilt  lads  arrive  in  motor-cars! 

Then  the  Ramble,  or  the  numerous  bypaths 
that  lead  to  the  reservoir,  or  that  give  on  the 
bridle-paths,  wherein  joyous  youth  with  grooms 

3° 


THE  LUNGS 

flit  by,  or  prosperous  cits  showing  lean,  crooked 
shanks  painfully  bump  on  horses  too  wide  for 
them.  Ah,  yes !  Central  Park  will  continue  for 
years  to  furnish  amusement  (if  that  wretched 
Zoo  were  only  banished  to  the  Bronx  !)  and  deep 
breathing  for  the  lucky  rider  who  lives  on  its 
borders.  Also  furnish  fun  for  May  parties,  June 
walks,  and  July  depredations.  It  is  a  miracle 
of  landscape-gardening,  notwithstanding  its  ab 
sence  of  monotony  — •  it  abounds  in  too  many 
twists  and  turns;  it  is  seldom  reposeful,  because 
broad  meadows  are  absent.  You  can't  do  much 
in  decoration  without  flat  surfaces.  But  what 
mortal  could  accomplish  Frederick  Law  Olmsted 
and  Calvert  Vaux  accomplished;  the  impend 
ing  ruin  is  the  result  of  pitiless  natural  causes. 

I  once  said  that  one  can't  be  a  flaneur  in  a 
city  without  trees.  New  York  is  almost  tree 
less,  and  Central  Park  soon  will  be.  When  not 
so  long  ago  I  saluted  the  Obelisk  on  the  Thames 
embankment,  that  antique  and  morose  stylite 
sent  its  regards  to  its  brother  in  our  Park. 
Some  day  when  the  last  Yankee  (the  breed  is 
rapidly  running  out)  will  look  at  the  plans  of 
what  was  once  Central  Park,  hanging  in  the 
Metropolitan  Museum,  his  eye  will  caress  the 
Obelisk  across  the  way.  That  strange  shaft 
will  endure  when  New  York  is  become  an  abom 
ination  and  a  desolation. 

Arthur  Brisbane's  notion  that  the  nasty  little 
lakes  and  water  pools  be  drained  and  refilled 
with  salt  water  for  bathing  purposes  is  a  capi- 


THE  LUNGS 

tal  one.  Gone  at  a  swoop  malaria  and  evil 
odours;  gone,  too,  the  mosquitoes  which  make 
life  miserable  for  nigh  dwellers.  But  the  park 
is  doomed;  let  us  enjoy  its  ancient  bravery  while 
we  may. 

I  never  skated  at  Van  Cortlandt  Park,  be 
cause  I  can't  skate;  but  I  love  the  spot,  love 
the  old  mansion  and  its  relics,  love  the  open 
feeling  about  it.  Atop  of  the  highest  part  of 
the  island  is  Isham  Park.  To  reach  it  get  off 
at  the  Two  Hundred  and  Seventh  Street  Sub 
way  station  and  walk  westwardly  up  the  hill,  or 
through  Isham  Street.  On  the  brow  is  the  little 
park,  looking  up  and  down  the  Hudson  and 
across  Spuyten  Duyvil.  A  rare  spot  to  watch 
aeroplane  races.  Not  far  away  is  the  Billings 
castle,  and  across  the  Fort  Washington  Road 
the  studio  and  Gothic  cloisters  of  the  sculptor 
George  Grey  Barnard. 

Often  have  I  enjoyed  the  Zoological  Garden 
in  the  Bronx,  the  Botanical  Garden,  and  the 
Bronx  Park.  Our  Zoo  is  easily  the  largest  and 
most  complete  in  the  world.  I've  visited  all 
the  European  Zoos,  from  Amsterdam  and  Ham 
burg  to  Vienna  and  Budapest.  As  for  the  Bo 
tanical  Garden,  I  have  the  famous  botanist 
Hugo  de  Vries  of  Amsterdam  as  a  witness,  who 
told  me  he  would  be  happy  to  live  near  it  al 
ways.  The  Bronx  River  is  an  "intimate"  creek 
and  malodorous,  but  do  you  remember  what 
cunning  little  French  restaurants  were  in  vogue 
up  there  two  or  three  decades  ago?  F.  Hop- 

32 


THE  LUNGS 

kinson  Smith  celebrated  one  of  them  in  a  short 
story.  To-day  they  charge  you  more  for  wine 
and  cookery  that  are  inferior  to  the  old-time 
establishments.  Or  has  Time  intervened  with 
its  soft  pedal  on  the  gustatory  sense?  I  don't 
believe  it.  The  enjoyment  of  the  table  is  the 
longest  surviving  of  the  sociable  peccadillos,  and 
nothing  can  prove  to  me  that  either  my  Bur 
gundy  or  my  Bordeaux  palate  has  deteriorated. 
But  if  I  get  on  the  subject  of  food  we  shall  never 
see  Pelham  Parkway. 

I  didn't  drive  the  devil  wagon,  else  I  should 
never  have  seen  what  I  did  —  at  least  not  in 
such  brief  time  and  in  such  a  pleasant  way. 
For  ten  hours  my  friend  wheeled  me  up  Tre- 
mont  Avenue,  the  Southern  Boulevard  —  and 
such  boulevards  !  —  to  Pelham  Parkway,  with 
the  park  of  one  thousand  seven  hundred  acres 
and  more  (I  read  this  in  a  guide-book)  up  from 
the  Harlem  River,  through  magnificent  shore 
and  country,  the  Sound  in  sight,  and  a  general 
sense  of  being  in  a  primeval  forest  that  had  been 
cultivated  by  super-apes.  On  grey  days  the 
mist  along  the  sedge  grass  of  the  water  evokes 
delightful  melancholy.  We  whizzed  through 
towns  I  had  heard  of  but  never  visited.  Oh, 
shame !  Think  of  Mount  Vernon,  Yonkers,  Ir- 
vington,  and  Tarrytown !  All  new  to  this  des 
perate  cockney. 

However,  it  was  Pelham  Bay  that  set  me 
shouting.  There's  a  park  for  you !  The  entire 
cityful  could  go  out  there,  hold  a  cyclopean 

33 


picnic,  and  have  plenty  of  room  to  turn  around 
in.  It  is  not  Fairmount  Park,  for  that  is  the 
largest  in  the  East,  but  it's  the  nearest  thing 
to  it.  It  is  the  combination  of  water  and  woods 
that  is  attractive.  The  Philadelphia  park  has 
the  same,  but  on  a  vaster  scale.  Of  European 
parks  I  can  recall  none  that  approaches  Pelham 
—  the  Boboli  Gardens  and  Cascine  at  Florence, 
Hyde,  Regent,  St.  James's,  and  other  London 
Parks,  the  Bois,  Tuileries,  and  the  Jardin  d'Ac- 
climatation,  Paris,  the  Prater,  Vienna  (a  lovely 
spot),  Charlottenburg  Chaussee,  Berlin  —  none 
of  these  matches  Pelham  Parkway.  The  auto 
mobiles  seem  to  eat  space  on  the  smooth  road 
beds.  When  the  projected  Bronx  Parkway  is 
an  accomplished  fact,  the  motorists  ought  to  be 
forever  satisfied. 

We  crossed  from  the  Sound  over  to  the  Hud 
son  on  excellent  roads.  I  began  to  wonder  why 
any  one  could  abide  living  in  Gotham  when 
such  a  delectable  land  of  milk  and  honey  is  so 
near.  I  have  noticed  that  when  I  ride  in  an 
other  man's  motor-car  I  feel  optimistic  and  in 
clined  to  see  the  "slaves  of  toil"  in  a  rosy  mood. 
And  this  mood  was  not  banished  by  our  arrival 
at  the  Sleepy  Hollow  Club.  From  its  terraced 
lawns  the  Hudson  may  be  viewed  in  all  its  maj 
esty.  This  former  home  of  Elliott  F.  Shepard 
is  a  palace,  and,  forgetting  the  joys  and  woes  of 
Corlears  Hook  and  Tompkins  Square,  I  trained 
my  eyes  on  the  prospect.  There  is  justice  in 
the  boast  that  nowhere  may  be  seen  such  an 

34 


THE  LUNGS 

extraordinary  collocation  of  the  grandiose  and 
the  familiar  in  landscape  and  waterscape.  The 
Rhine  is  domestic,  colloquial  by  comparison. 
Down  the  Danube  at  the  Iron  Gates  there  is 
some  hint  of  the  dazzling  perspectives  of  Pali 
sades  and  Hudson,  but  there  again  the  barbaric 
note  sounds  too  loud  in  the  symphony  of  rugged 
rocks  and  vegetation.  And  great  Highland  Park, 
Bear's  Nose,  the  new  State  Park,  gift  of  Mrs. 
Harriman  —  what  a  wealth  of  natural  park 
lands !  When  the  wicked  blasters  blast  no 
more,  restrained  from  sinful  destruction  by  the 
law  courts  (when?),  and  there  are  better  trav 
elling  facilities,  the  Palisades  side  of  the  river 
will  entertain  thousands  where  to-day  it  hardly 
counts  its  hundreds. 

We  flew  along  the  riverside.  I  had  renounced 
all  hope  of  seeing  Jerome  Park,  St.  Mary's, 
Claremont,  and  Crotona  Parks,  or  even  the  little 
Poe  Park  at  Fordham  —  we  had  passed  High 
Bridge,  Fort  Washington,  and  Macomb's  Dam 
Parks  earlier  —  and  farther  down  I  had  often 
visited  Morris  Heights  and  Audubon  Park,  but 
I  was  consoled  by  the  sharp  contrasts  of  the 
shifting  landscape.  Of  course,  there  was  a 
"panne"  on  upper  Broadway,  a  burst  tire,  and 
the  ensuing  boredom,  but  nothing  lasts,  even 
impatience,  and  soon  we  were  through  Yonkers, 
and  then  across  the  city  line  past  Palisades  Park, 
with  its  lights,  and,  finally,  on  Riverside  Drive, 
surely  vantage-ground  from  which  the  ravishing 
spectacle  of  down-river  may  be  enjoyed. 

35 


THE  LUNGS 

It  would  be  unjust  to  pass  City  Hall  and  its 
park,  not  because  it  allures  —  it  does  not — but 
because  City  Hall  is  the  priceless  gem  in  our 
architectural  tiara.  Buried  as  it  is  by  the  pat 
ronising  bulk  and  height  of  its  neighbours,  it 
more  than  holds  its  own  in  dignity,  simplicity, 
and  pure  linear  beauty  —  qualities  conspicuous 
by  their  absence  in  the  adjacent  parvenu 
structures. 

Nor  must  I  miss  Prospect  Park,  Brooklyn, 
near  enough  to  reach  in  a  half-hour,  and  from 
the  grassy  knolls  of  which  the  turrets  and  pin 
nacles  of  Manhattan  may  be  seen.  It  is  far 
more  captivating  than  Central  Park,  and  the 
Flatbush  Avenue  entrance  reminds  one  of  some 
vast  plaza  in  a  European  capital,  upper  Brus 
sels,  for  example.  It  is  imposing  with  its  Mac- 
Monnies  monument,  its  spaciousness,  and  gen 
eral  decorative  effect  —  an  effect  enhanced  by 
the  Italianate  water-tower  and  the  Museum  far 
ther  down,  whose  vast  galleries  house  so  little 
original  art,  with  the  exception  of  the  Sargent 
water-colours  and  former  Chapman  pictures.  It 
is  only  fair  to  add  that  Prospect  Park  began 
with  natural  advantages  superior  to  Central 
Park,  advantages  made  the  most  of.  This  park 
really  makes  Brooklyn  habitable  and  not  merely 
an  interlude  of  bricks  and  mortar  before  achiev 
ing  the  seashore. 

Well,  we  are  not  far  from  Battery  Park, 
whence  we  started.  It  is  only  a  swallow's  flight 
this  —  for  I  could  have  dwelt  on  the  special 

36 


THE  LUNGS 

characteristics  of  each  park,  on  the  elevated 
playgrounds  at  Williamsburg  Bridge,  on  the  va 
rious  recreation  piers  —  but  celerity  was  my  aim, 
the  impression  as  we  skimmed;  all  the  rest  is 
guide-book  literature  —  as  Paul  Verlaine  did  not 
say.  I  didn't  start  out  to  prove  anything,  yet 
I  think  I  have  suggested  that,  despite  its  con 
tracted  chest  and  waist,  the  lungs  of  Manhattan 
are  both  vigorous  and  varied. 


37 


Ill 

THE  WATERWAYS 

LIKE  the  prudent  elderly  person  I  am,  I  ar 
rived  at  the  boat  only  a  half-hour  ahead  of  time. 
"Better  never  than  early,"  I  remarked  —  with  a 
certain  waggish  air  —  to  the  ticket-seller,  a  man 
of  informal  manners,  who  dispensed  with  a 
booth  and  disposed  of  pasteboards  in  the  open. 
This  lent  to  the  transaction  an  al  fresco  char 
acter  that  also  smacked  of  adventure.  What 
an  adventure ! 

I  never  mounted  the  gang-plank  of  an  ocean 
going  steamer  with  the  same  trepidation  that  I 
crossed  the  deck  of  the  little  yacht  on  a  sum 
mer  afternoon  at  the  Battery.  For  one  thing  I 
was  never,  even  during  a  mid-ocean  storm,  on 
such  a  wabbly  boat.  Every  wash  from  passing 
craft  made  it  shake  like  a  bowlful  of  jelly.  A 
sensitive  nautical  organism.  But  I  was  not 
afraid.  It  was  just  two  o'clock,  and  two  people 
were  on  board.  Fifteen  minutes  later  there  were 
eleven  first-class  passengers,  and  at  three  o'clock 
we  received  our  full  complement  and  lifted  an 
chor  for  a  long  and  perilous  cruise  up  the  East 
River,  through  the  Harlem,  down  the  Hudson, 
better  known  hereabout  as  the  North  River,  and 
then  into  snug  harbour  at  the  Battery. 


THE  WATERWAYS 

Verily,  thrilling  prospects  and  hairbreadth 
'scapes  were  ahead  of  us.  I  looked  at  the 
captain  and  crew;  both  seemed  seaworthy.  I 
noted  the  megaphone  of  the  ''lecturer,"  noted 
the  position  of  the  life-preservers,  lighted  a 
fresh  cigar,  and  settled  down  in  my  uncomfor 
table  seat  to  stare  and  stare  and  stare. 

That  fatally  fascinating  sky-line  of  lower 
Manhattan  again  set  me  to  wondering  whether 
it  will  ever  assume  the  attribute  of  stability. 
The  changeless  change  of  New  York  is  dis 
couraging.  The  eternal  characteristics  of  Lon 
don  or  Boston,  Vienna  or  Philadelphia  find  no 
counterpart  in  Gotham.  It  is  but  a  few  years 
ago  and  the  Singer  Building  dominated  the  view 
from  the  Narrows;  on  the  Jersey  shore,  with  the 
City  Investing  Building  it  assumed  the  shape 
of  some  fantastic  beast,  all  neck  and  head. 

Now  the  denticulated  battlements  of  the  city 
cower  beneath  the  terrifying  height  of  the  Wool- 
worth  Tower.  The  Municipal  Building  bulks 
largely,  and  already  the  new  Equitable  Build 
ing  threatens  to  usurp  the  interest.  The  eye 
is  caressed  by  the  graceful  lines  of  the  Bankers 
Trust  and  that  Titanic  lighthouse  on  the  Sea- 
mans'  Institute  at  South  Street  and  Coenties 
Slip  serves  as  an  admirable  angle  for  the  gaze 
to  rest  upon  before  it  embraces  the  wide  stretch 
of  harbour. 

For  hours  I  could  sit  and  compose  and  re- 
compose  —  as  the  painters  say  —  this  extraor 
dinary  jumble  of  architectural  styles.  In  the 

39 


THE  WATERWAYS 

terrific  chorus  of  steel  and  stone  and  glass 
every  imaginable  tune  is  chanted,  from  crazy 
Renaissance  to  sombre,  savage  Gothic,  from 
perverted  campaniles  to  drunken  Baroque.  The 
architecture  of  New  York!  It  is  a  mad  med 
ley  of  pepper-boxes  perched  on  cigar  boxes  set 
on  end  and  pierced  by  sinister  windows.  In 
twilit  tunnels  beautiful  churches  are  lost  like 
stone  needles  in  metallic  haystacks.  Consider 
Trinity  Church ! 

Vain  ornamentation  that  recalls  sugar-coated 
cakes  made  for  festive  occasions  finish  off  the 
spires  of  bizarre  structures  which  might  illus 
trate  an  Arabian  Nights  tale.  The  top  of  the 
Woolworth  Tower  —  is  that  beautiful  or  trivial  ? 
The  peak  of  the  Metropolitan  Tower  —  is  that 
dignified  or  confectionery?  And  what  of  the 
Municipal  Building  roof,  where  curious  turrets 
rob  the  tower  of  its  meaning?  There  are  no 
gargoyles  in  our  architecture;  the  entire  struc 
ture  is  usually  a  gargoyle.  But  imposing ! 

Just  then  the  voice  through  the  megaphone 
announced  that  Governor's  Island  was  near  by, 
and  that  the  East  River  passage  was  about  to 
be  achieved.  Every  one  chewed  gum,  but  lis 
tened  respectfully.  The  Barge  Office  faded  into 
the  middle  distance,  and  a  slight  nostalgia  over 
took  me.  Here  we  call  it  homesickness.  Any 
how,  it  wasn't  seasickness,  for,  while  the  boat 
did  rock  in  the  wake  of  ferries  and  colliers,  I 
experienced  little  discomfort.  Possibly  experi 
ence  on  the  real  ocean  may  have  saved  me,  for, 
40 


THE  WATERWAYS 

joking  aside,  our  two  rivers  can  kick  up  a  bob 
bery  when  wind  and  tide  are  ill-tempered.  Our 
mentor,  who  had  the  assured  bearing  of  an  actor 
doubled  by  a  diplomat,  was  a  little  given  to 
harping  on  the  statuary  of  the  Custom  House. 
We  were  under  the  Brooklyn  Bridge  before  he 
rather  reluctantly  let  go  the  subject. 

Hurrah !  I  recognise  my  old  acquaintance 
Corlears  Park,  and  the  battered  steamboat  in 
the  offing.  Around  the  Hook  is  Grand  Street 
Ferry,  and  its  street  vista.  Under  Manhattan 
Bridge,  under  Williamsburg  Bridge,  we  passed, 
the  navy  yard  to  the  right,  with  several  war 
vessels  to  be  seen. 

In  summer-time  the  city  might  be  described 
as  an  island  surrounded  by  bathing  boys.  I 
never  before  knew  how  many  contraband  plunges 
were  enjoyed  by  these  young  rascals.  They 
shrieked  at  the  yacht,  and  all  the  passengers 
immediately  became  immersed  in  their  maps. 

Greenpoint  with  Newtown  Creek  did  not 
arouse  enthusiasm.  It  looks  just  as  it  smells 
-  unpleasant.  As  we  neared  Blackwell's  Is 
land  and  the  bridge,  our  lecturer  discoursed  on 
the  punishment  meted  out  to  wrong-doers,  and 
did  not  fail  to  make  facetious  remarks.  The 
Island  looks  as  neat  as  a  new  pin,  a  very  agree 
able  abode  for  a  summer  vacation.  As  usual, 
in  America  all  the  good  things  are  gobbled  up 
for  the  wicked.  There  are  Ward's,  Randall's, 
and  Blackwell's  Islands  wasted  on  the  sick  and 
criminal.  Why  ? 


THE  WATERWAYS 

Up  the  Seine  the  delightful  He  de  Puteaux  is 
given  over  to  excursionists,  as  is  our  Glen  Is 
land.  Why  must  minor  malefactors,  insane, 
and  diseased  humans  be  awarded  the  very  pick 
of  locations  in  a  fine  river  so  near  New  York? 
Couldn't  they  be  handled  just  as  well  over  in 
the  wilds  of  Long  Island,  where  they  wouldn't 
damage  the  arid  soil  or  hurt  the  monotonous 
landscape?  Some  day  law-abiding  people  may 
come  into  their  own,  may  enjoy  our  river  fronts, 
(of  wretched  wharfs)  unequalled  anywhere  for 
their  views  and  size. 

Opposite,  on  the  city  shore,  we  passed  the 
East  River  and  Jefferson  Parks.  Both  were 
thronged,  for,  no  matter  how  hot  the  day,  some 
breeze  circulates  at  the  river.  Ward's  Island  re 
minded  me  of  St.  Petersburg,  in  the  River  Neva, 
where  is  the  charming  island  called  Kamenoi 
Ostrow.  Anton  Rubinstein  liked  it  so  well  that 
he  composed  one  of  his  most  popular  and  melo 
dious  pianoforte  pieces,  giving  it  the  above  title. 
But  there  are  no  champagne  and  pretty  girls 
on  Ward's;  no  gipsy  orchestras  tear  passion  to 
tatters  as  dark-haired  beauties  kick  over  the 
windmill  on  Kamenoi  Island.  The  Russians 
know  how  to  enjoy  life,  and  their  charity  pa 
tients  and  prisoners  are  never  on  view  —  indeed, 
are  sometimes  ominously  absent  from  the  map 
of  life. 

Our  guide  pointed  out  the  Old  Ladies'  Home 
and  quoted  Meet  Me  at  the  Church.  No  one 
smiled,  for  of  all  the  solemn  functions  I  ever 
42 


THE   WATERWAYS 

participated  in  this  sightseeing  trip  was  the  most 
solemn.  The  people  were  visitors  from  all  parts 
of  the  State  and  country.  (I  overheard  invid 
ious  criticism  made  by  a  man  from  Los  An 
geles.)  The  faculty  of  attention  was  in  evi 
dence.  No  laughter,  no  skylarking,  among  the 
young  people;  all  was  seriousness  that  must 
have  gratified  the  man  with  the  megaphone. 
They  bought  his  book  and  post-cards,  did  those 
excursionists,  and  they  bought  often,  for  at 
every  twist  of  the  river  he  had  a  fresh  batch 
to  offer.  The  resources,  oratorical  and  com 
mercial,  of  that  man  were  astonishing.  I 
watched  his  face  more  than  I  did  the  scenery. 
He  was  a  comedian  born,  and  with  a  less  sedate 
audience  he  would  have  made  a  hit.  Toward 
eve  a  resigned  look  stole  over  his  expressive 
features,  but  no  complaint  escaped  his  lips.  He 
was  one  of  art's  martyrs. 

The  stunted  youth  with  the  flat  nose,  curly 
hair,  and  flow  of  humour  was  more  of  a  favour 
ite.  He  sold  opera-glasses,  lemonade,  tea,  and 
information  generally.  He  assured  one  timid 
old  lady  that  with  his  binoculars  she  could  see 
the  Vaterland  coming  up  the  bay  (the  big  boat 
arrived  twenty-four  hours  later).  She  hired  a 
pair  and  looked  longingly  at  the  iron  steamboats 
en  route  to  Coney  Island.  I  admired  that  boy. 
He  would  have  cracked  a  joke  in  the  heart 
of  a  whirlwind,  such  his  resiliency  of  tempera 
ment. 

The  yacht  no  longer  rocked.     We  had  reached 

43 


THE  WATERWAYS 

the  Harlem  River,  and  somnolency  reigned 
aboard.  We  suffered  from  a  surfeit.  This  in 
difference  was  difficult  to  arouse.  The  Harlem 
water  looked  crowded  after  the  East  River. 
The  bridges  piqued  us:  Willis  Avenue,  Second 
Avenue,  Third  Avenue,  New  York  Central, 
Lenox  Avenue,  Central,  Putnam,  High,  Wash 
ington,  Kings,  and  the  Spuyten  Duyvil  Bridges 
—  an  array  which  excites  your  interest  because 
of  the  diversity.  And  also  that  huge  railroad 
bridge  across  to  Long  Island,  and  of  the  tubes 
anchored  in  the  stream  that  are  to  serve  for  a 
subway  under  the  river.  Harlem  is  no  longer  a 
suburb.  Harlem  is  the  city.  The  Speedway  is 
superb  but  solitary.  A  few  Italians  mending 
the  road,  that's  all. 

Why  does  New  York  empty  itself  as  soon  as 
the  sun  rides  high  in  the  heavens  ?  In  London  the 
real  season  is  in  progress  when  the  bad  weather 
begins.  New  York  is  seasonally  the  superior 
of  the  English  metropolis,  notwithstanding  its 
occasional  torrid  heat  and  humidity.  Yet  none 
but  visitors  fill  our  motors,  sail  our  waters,  or 
walk  our  pavements.  The  resident  has  slipped 
away  to  Newport,  or  is  ambuscaded  behind 
the  blinds  of  his  house,  ashamed  to  be  seen 
during  the  dog-days.  Well,  he  misses  a  lot. 
While  I  don't  altogether  subscribe  to  the  as 
sertion  that  our  town  is  the  coolest  summer 
resort  in  the  land,  nevertheless  it  is  preferable 
to  any  other  large  city  that  I  know  of;  besides, 
and  this  must  not  be  overlooked,  time  need 

44 


THE  WATERWAYS 

never  hang  heavy  on  your  hands;  there  is  so 
much  to  be  seen  that  dull  care  is  soon  driven 
away.  Think  of  the  dancers  ! 

As  we  advanced  through  the  canal  —  we  had 
duly  admired  the  Jumel  mansion,  with  the  ad 
jacent  pretty  Roger  Morris  Park  —  the  scenes 
on  either  bank  were  mildly  entertaining  and 
human  —  all  too  human,  as  Nietzsche  puts  it  — 
gangs  of  labourers,  bathing  youths,  large,  ag 
gressive  boys,  rude  boys,  and  coloured;  shanties 
wherein  candy  and  tobacco  were  sold;  canal- 
boats  with  the  family  wash  on  view,  mansions 
high  in  air  set  amid  cool  arbours,  racing  crews 
in  frail  shells,  defiant  lads  hurling  stones  —  and 
all  the  meanness  and  misery  of  dirty  shore 
fronts  encumbered  with  offal,  garbage,  barges 
standing  by,  and  the  inevitable  baseball  game, 
with  its  accompaniment  of  shouts  and  swear 
words  and  whirling  figures,  could  be  seen. 

It  was  a  relief  to  near  the  Hudson,  to  glide 
through  its  backwaters  and  finally  catch  a 
glimpse  of  its  capacious  bosom.  The  sensation 
was  akin  to  emerging  from  a  long,  sultry  cor 
ridor  into  the  open  sea.  Every  one  awoke  — 
that  is,  began  to  take  notice.  Professor  Mega 
phone  fairly  trilled  out  his  facts.  No  one  cried, 
"Thalatta!  Thalatta!"  After  all,  your  New 
Yorker  is  an  amphibious  human.  He  is  not 
afraid  of  the  wet,  like  the  majority  of  our  citi 
zens  from  across  the  briny.  The  salt  and  the 
savour  of  the  sea  are  for  him  a  prime  necessity. 
He  may  not  go  to  the  beaches,  he  may  live  on 

45 


THE  WATERWAYS 

Broadway  as  far  down  as  Bowling  Green,  yet 
never  go  across  to  Battery  Park;  but  set  him 
in  an  inland  town  and  he  begins  to  growl. 
That  saline  tang  is  lacking.  He  does  not  miss 
the  clatter  and  crash  of  the  city  as  much  as 
the  salty  air,  and  when  you  remind  him  of  this 
he  is  quite  surprised.  He  has  never  analyzed 
his  sensations. 

The  stagnant  waters  and  stuffy  atmosphere 
of  the  river  that  makes  New  York  an  island  are 
forgotten  when  the  Hudson  is  reached.  A  dif 
ferent  humour  prevails.  We  listen  to  the  vener 
able  anecdote  of  Spuyten  Duyvil  and  we  crane 
our  necks  to  see  Island  Park,  up  at  the  end  of 
Washington  Heights.  The  guide  indicates  the 
Magdalen  Home,  and  makes  a  few  quips  about 
the  naughty  girls  therein;  this  time  prunes  and 
persimmons  are  writ  large  on  every  lip.  I  was 
relieved  when  a  drizzle  began.  I  lent  my  um 
brella  (did  you  see  a  large  old  party  who  didn't 
carry  an  umbrella  on  a  clear  day?)  to  a  lady 
sitting  next  to  me,  and  her  husband  held  it; 
thus  was  a  good  action  rewarded,  for  I  nestled 
behind  his  wife  and  he  kept  the  rain  from  her. 
Nothing  succeeds  like  selfishness. 

However,  it  was  not  a  landscape-blurring  rain. 
We  easily  saw  the  historic  sites  and  experienced 
a  slight  hunger  and  thirst  when  the  French 
restaurant  on  the  Palisades  side  hove  into  view. 
The  megaphone  had  reached  the  premium-with- 
every-pack-of-post-cards  stage.  He  actually  of 
fered  free  pictures  of  the  great  liners.  And  the 
46 


THE  WATERWAYS 

rain  swept  us  fore  and  aft.  The  stanch  little 
craft  dipped  her  short  nose  in  the  foaming  bil 
lows,  the  pilot  wiped  the  salt  from  his  eyes,  and 
one  of  the  crew  appeared  in  "slops"  and  a  sou' 
wester.  Then  I  knew  the  captain  feared  the 
weather.  What  he  told  me  later  was  the  truth 
-  he  hated  the  white,  thick  fog  which  threat 
ened  farther  down. 

But  the  voice  of  the  megaphone  never  faltered. 
"Ahoy  and  Avast!  This  is  the  last  chance  to 
buy  at  reduced  rates  views  of  the  noble  ocean 
liners  —  the  Lusitania,  Mauretania,  Aquitania, 
Vaterland."  Few  bought,  for  what  with  the 
rough  tide  and  the  impending  fog  and  the  misty 
wind,  the  passengers  were  too  preoccupied.  But 
the  hawker  did  not  miss  his  chance:  "Now, 
then,  the  finest  remedy  for  seasickness  in  the 
world.  A  gift  in  every  package."  It  was  chew 
ing-gum. 

Claremont  was  almost  passed  without  com 
ment;  luckily,  the  lecturer  caught  it  with  the 
tail  of  his  eye  and  we  were  told  in  moving  ac 
cents  of  the  tomb  of  the  amiable  child.  It  was 
touching,  say  what  you  will;  this  melange  of 
premature  death,  chewing-gum,  the  odour  of 
wet  mantles,  the  persuasive  eloquence  of  the 
speaker,  the  giggling  under  my  umbrella  —  my 
umbrella,  remember !  — •  of  the  married  couple 
(honeymooners,  I'll  wager)  who  were  so  incon 
siderate  as  to  withdraw  from  my  side  to  their 
selfish  selves  and  leave  me  in  the  zone  of  wet. 
No  wonder  I  felt  like  crying.  I  thought  I  did 

47 


THE  WATERWAYS 

for  a  moment,  but  it  was  only  the  rain.  No 
lighthouse  was  in  sight.  The  storm  howled. 
We  "peeked"  at  the  cork  buoys.  The  thrill 
and  thrall  of  shipwreck  on  a  desert  canal-boat 
gripped  our  fancy. 

We  swept  by  that  most  inexpressive  of  na 
tional  monuments,  Grant's  Tomb,  and  when  we 
arrived  before  the  Soldiers'  and  Sailors'  Monu 
ment,  our  cicerone  spoke  of  the  objection  raised 
by  the  neighbourhood  when  the  view  was  ob 
structed.  I  confess  I  sympathised  with  the  dis 
sidents.  People,  unless  they  are  madly  patriotic, 
don't  build  mansions  to  face  monuments,  and 
trippers.  Everything  in  its  place.  As  Ana- 
charsis  Cloots  exclaimed  several  times  during 
the  French  Revolution:  "I  belong  to  the  party 
of  indignation!" 

When  we  neared  the  city  we  heard  about  a 
famous  divorce  case  that  had  stirred  Riverside 
Drive.  Really,  I  never  enjoyed  such  a  blend 
ing  of  the  instructive  with  picturesque  contem 
poraneous  scandal.  The  lights  were  showing 
from  Palisades  Park,  and  along  the  Drive  innu 
merable  windows  were  starry.  The  palace  of 
Charles  M.  Schwab  once  attained,  we  knew  the 
end  approached;  with  Seventy-second  Street 
Riverside  Drive  finishes.  The  cars  and  tracks 
that  are  occasionally  concealed  on  the  upper  part 
of  the  river  are  here  displayed  in  all  their  ugli 
ness.  Another  cause  for  complaint,  and  a  grave 
one.  Others  have  made  it.  I  shan't.  Our  big 
town  is  eminently  commercial;  the  aesthetic 
48 


THE  WATERWAYS 

question  is  an  academic  one.  If  ever  New  York 
becomes  the  City  Beautiful,  it  will  be  through 
the  operation  of  causes  as  yet  in  the  womb  of 
time.  Utility  first. 

And  is  there  a  more  inviting  combination  of 
sea  and  land  anywhere  ?  Not  even  Rio  Janeiro. 
The  Hudson  and  the  Palisades  are  as  romantic 
as  the  Rhine;  romantic,  but  not  as  sentimental. 
Manhattan  Island,  thanks  to  its  facility  for 
egress  and  ingress,  can  lodge  its  millions  in  New 
Jersey,  or  over  on  Long  Island  —  not  to  men 
tion  Staten  Island,  or  up  the  State.  Hasn't  the 
time  arrived  when  the  looks  of  things  are  as 
important  as  the  price  of  things,  or  even  the 
things  themselves?  (This  is  not  meant  to  be 
metaphysical.  I  don't  mean  Kant's  Ding  an 
Sich.)  When  all  the  piers  are  steel  or  stone, 
when,  instead  of  huddled  sheds  and  dirty  wooden 
docks,  the  eye  will  gratefully  envisage  wide 
spaces  and  warehouses,  when  the  shore  railroad 
will  have  been  abolished,  when  cabbages  are 
kings  (they  are  now;  also  trumps)  and  roasted 
partridges  fall  from  the  firmament,  oh !  what 
a  nice,  nice  city  New  York  will  be !  Spotless 
Town  and  Phoebe  Snow  will  be  consumed  with 
envy,  and  you  and  I  will  be  translated  to  an 
other  and,  let  us  hope,  a  better  world.  Selah ! 

The  rain  had  ceased.  We  were  dodging  be 
tween  hooting  tugs  and  lighters.  Ferry-boats 
almost  rammed  our  tender  sides,  a  shaft  of  sun 
shine,  hot  and  cross,  pierced  the  clouds.  The 
fog  vanished.  There  was  the  noise  of  whistles. 

49 


THE  WATERWAYS 

Then  we  saw  the  West  Street  Building,  then  the 
Whitehall;  soon  we  rounded  the  point.  The 
Aquarium  was  again  in  the  foreground.  It  was 
not  yet  dusk,  but  we  felt  the  approach  of  night. 
The  boarders  —  I  mean  the  passengers  —  no 
doubt  heard  the  horns  of  elfland  (or  supper) 
blowing  through  their  memory.  And  films  for 
the  gods  made  by  the  eternal  scene-shifter  were 
preparing  for  performance  down  the  harbour. 
A  rosy  light  broke  over  Bayonne,  the  silhou 
ettes  of  those  twin  tall  chimneys  were  like  un- 
sharpened  lead  pencils,  and  a  summer  sunset, 
rich,  golden,  glowing,  bathed  "mast-hemmed 
Mannahata."  (Alas,  Walt  Whitman!  it  is  now 
nearly  funnel-encircled.)  We  had  seen  the  rim 
of  the  island,  and,  even  if  superficially,  the  day 
had  proved  pleasant.  I  could  repeat  the  experi 
ment  to-morrow  with  the  same  joy. 


IV 

THE   MATRIX 


DURING  the  cool,  rainy  streak  of  weather  last 
July  I  was  in  the  mood  statistical.  I  heartily 
dislike  figures,  which  are  the  most  elastic  and 
plastic  quantity  when  manipulated  by  clever 
folk,  and  the  most  depressing  of  all  combina 
tions  is  the  dubious  "science"  of  statistics,  even 
more  than  that  "dismal  science,"  socialism. 

Nevertheless,  I  was  "vastly  intrigued,"  by 
the  statement  that  the  Subway  as  it  now  stands 
has  a  total  length  of  twenty-one  miles.  Fabu 
lous  !  And  the  enterprise  is  only  in  its  infancy; 
the  entire  island  will  be  honeycombed  by  swiftly 
running  trains,  and  there  is  hope  that  the  ugly 
"L"  roads  will  be  removed  and  certain  broad 
avenues  regain  their  inalienable  but  lapsed  priv 
ileges  of  light  and  air  —  not  to  mention  the  ces 
sation  of  intolerable  noise. 

If  you  hear  an  "L"  train  starting  or  stopping 
—  especially  in  Brooklyn,  where  the  flat  wheel 
is  a  cult  with  the  B.  R.  T.  —  you  are  reminded 
of  a  busy  boiler-shop  when  a  lot  of  orders  have 
come  in  for  Dreadnoughts.  The  "L"  roads  are 
a  standing  reproach  to  Greater  New  York. 

Si 


THE  MATRIX 

It  may  sound  childish,  but  it  is  the  truth,  I 
confess  that  I  feared  to  travel  in  the  Subway  till 
a  short  time  ago.  I  was  in  Paris  some  years 
ago  when  a  catastrophe,  a  fire,  occurred,  and 
the  horrors  of  that  accident  made  me  nervous. 
The  Underground  in  London  is  gloomy,  the  cars 
not  inviting  —  rather  dirty,  I  should  say  —  but 
the  idea  of  fire  never  haunts  one  en  route.  The 
masonry  is  solid,  and  the  dampness  would 
smother  any  conflagration.  The  Paris  Metro 
politan  is  much  more  cheerful  and  better  lighted. 
The  service,  too,  is  excellent. 

Berlin  has  only  begun  experimenting  with 
subways.  There  is  virtually  but  one.  It  seems 
miniature  compared  to  the  London  or  New 
York  subways.  The  cars  are  small  and  light- 
running.  The  system  is  adapted  to  the  shape 
of  the  city.  You  can  go  from  the  neighbour 
hood  of  the  Palace  —  it  is  only  a  few  blocks 
away  —  to  Charlottenburg,  with  several  loops 
for  other  districts.  The  speed  is  not  breakneck, 
there  are  no  expresses,  and  every  car  has  a  com 
partment  for  smokers  —  from  which  an  over 
powering  odour  of  bad  tobacco  is  always  present. 
Our  network  is  colossal  in  comparison. 

The  first  day  I  cautiously  went  down  the 
steps  of  the  Grand  Central  Station  it  would  not 
have  been  a  difficult  task  to  send  me  flying  up 
stairs  again.  I  wasn't  exactly  frightened,  rather 
nervous.  The  hustling  crowd  on  the  platform 
didn't  give  me  much  chance  for  reflection,  and 
I  entered  the  first  train  that  I  was  shoved  into 

52 


THE  MATRIX 

—  the  magnetism  of  the  mob,  as  Le  Bon  would 
say.  I  found  myself  skimming  down- town  and 
on  a  local.  It  went  fast  enough  for  me  then; 
now  I  avoid  locals  as  much  as  possible.  Who 
doesn't?  Every  station  stopped  at  robs  us  of 
our  precious  minutes,  although  when  we  arrive 
at  our  destination  we  are  apt  to  waste  time 
staring  at  a  steeplejack,  a  street  altercation,  or 
the  baseball  returns. 

Many  years  ago  I  learned  to  discount  the 
hurry  and  flurry  of  New  York.  We  are  no 
busier  than  Bridgeport  or  Jersey  City,  but  we 
pretend  we  are.  It  is  necessary  for  our  munic 
ipal  vanity  to  squeeze  and  jam  and  rush  and 
crush.  Another  vital  lie.  The  conformation 
of  the  island  has  conditioned  the  transportation 
problem  (Ha!  I  told  you  I  had  been  reading 
the  jargon  of  statistics),  hence  the  "L"  roads 
and  the  Subway.  The  more  the  merrier,  say 
I.  Anything  that  will  relieve  us  of  the  shame 
ful  huddling  of  humanity  during  the  busy  hours, 
those  hours  that  are  a  purgatory  to  decent  men 
and  women.  May  their  necessity  vanish  with 
the  passing  of  the  "L"  roads. 

But  I  am  not  sticking  to  my  story.  To  be 
truthful,  there  isn't  much  to  tell.  For  a  few 
minutes  I  was  stunned  by  the  roar,  discon 
certed  by  the  gale  that  blew  backward  through 
the  train,  and  held  on  to  a  strap  as  a  sailor 
hangs  on  to  the  main  brace  in  a  storm  at  sea. 
(I  hope  it's  the  main  brace.)  The  roominess  of 
the  car,  the  brilliancy  of  the  lighting,  and  the 

53 


THE  MATRIX 

absorbed  expression  of  the  passengers  grew  upon 
my  consciousness.  Though,  so  it  seemed  to  me, 
we  were  racing  with  death,  no  one  suggested 
that  such  an  idea  worried  his  skull.  A  Subway 
crowd  is  typical  of  the  town.  Indifference  is 
one  prime  quality  and  chewing  gum  another. 
Nearly  every  one  chews,  the  men  more  volubly 
—  if  I  may  so  express  myself  —  than  the  women. 

The  lantern-jawed  Yankee  type  is  again  to 
the  fore.  For  a  generation  he  had  disappeared 
from  our  streets,  from  our  illustrations.  He  is 
back,  shrewd-faced,  long  upper  lip,  and  salient 
cheek-bones.  But  he  is  the  surviving  remnant  of 
the  once  dominant  American  nation  —  then  a 
compound  of  Irish,  English,  Scotch,  with  an 
occasional  modicum  of  German;  to-day  he  is 
on  his  last  legs,  fighting,  though  he  hardly  real 
izes  it,  against  the  mastery  of  the  Slav  and  the 
Italian.  But  who  cares?  We  are  as  yet  too 
young  a  nation,  still  in  too  inchoate  a  state,  to 
worry  about  the  infusion  of  more  foreign  blood. 
If  it  is  healthy,  it  is  welcome.  From  the  giant 
amalgam  something  powerful  must  emerge  even 
if  a  sense  of  continuity  is  still  lacking.  But  in 
no  American  city  is  the  cosmopolitan  orchestra 
tion  so  rich,  so  reverberant  and  complex. 

But  the  national  neurosis  of  gum  chewing  is 
not  a  promising  sign.  Are  we  so  nervous,  so 
lacking  in  self-control,  as  this  St.  Vitus's  dance 
of  the  jaws  indicates  ?  To  watch  human  beings 
feed  is  never  an  inspiring  spectacle;  but  this  arti 
ficial,  self-induced  labial  pleasure  —  why  should 

54 


THE   MATRIX 

it  be  intruded  upon  the  eye  of  a  neighbour? 
Animals  chew  their  cud ;  mankind  should  not. 
^Esthetically  it  disfigures  the  profiles  of  pretty 
girls.  If  they  were  only  conscious  of  this !  I 
have  seen  lovers  fondly  gazing  in  each  other's 
eyes,  and  chewing  all  the  while.  Even  the  police 
chew.  When  the  Woman  Suffrage  Party  makes 
a  crusade  against  this  minor  sin  of  ill  taste  I'll 
have  some  hope  in  its  utility;  this  and  our 
vulgar  ways  of  speech,  enunciation,  and  pro 
nunciation  are  greater  evils  in  the  long  run 
than  tobacco,  alcohol,  and  racing.  They  debase 
the  social  currency  of  life,  and  where  there  are 
bad  manners,  bad  morals  are  not  far  away. 

The  correction  of  these  matters  is  primarily 
the  affair  of  the  women.  I  really  believe  that 
English  is  spoken  nowhere  so  badly  —  always 
excepting  Cockney  London  — as  in  New  York 
City.  Our  public  schools  are  the  principal  poi 
soners.  Ride  often  in  the  Subway  (on  the  "L" 
roads  foreigners  predominate)  and  you  will  hear 
our  noble  tongue  abominably  abused.  It's  not 
the  general  slanginess,  for  slang  has  its  uses, 
but  the  disfiguring  twang,  the  nasal  intonation, 
and  the  mispronunciation  that  offend  the  ear. 
I  had  always  fancied  that  only  in  Brooklyn  you 
heard  "Brooklynese,"  that  unpleasant  flatten 
ing  of  the  vowels,  that  depressing  drawl.  But 
I  did  Brooklyn  an  injustice;  to-day  all  New 
York  speaks  in  the  same  fashion.  Not  many 
young  men  and  women  you  meet  are  born  here, 
and  their  provincial  accent  has  clung  to  them. 

55 


THE  MATRIX 

I  know  the  usual  philistine  will  bob  up  after 
reading  this,  crying  aloud  in  righteous  wrath: 
Better  our  dear  old  American  language  with  our 
pure  hearts  than  all  the  fancy  speech  of  Eng 
lishmen!  But  your  hearts  are  no  purer,  my 
misguided  but  patriotic  person,  than  any  other 
nation's,  and  the  most  disagreeable  English  I 
ever  heard  was  from  the  lips  of  English  country 
people.  Really,  you  can't  understand  some  of 
their  dialects.  I  am  complaining  that,  with 
our  common-school  education,  the  best  in  the 
world,  the  chiefest  thing,  our  language,  is  so 
badly  spoken,  the  art  of  speech,  plain  and  with 
out  frills,  the  speech  that  differentiates  man 
kind  from  the  beast  world.  Chewing  gum  is  a 
vile  habit;  at  least  it  keeps  silent  the  raucous 
New  York  voice;  above  all,  the  voice  of  the  New 
York  woman.  Riding  in  the  noisy  Subways 
and  gabbling  doesn't  improve  the  timbre  of  the 
ladies'  tone. 

However,  we  are  not  given  to  such  niceties 
in  the  whirl  of  our  daily  life.  We  lack  the 
"faculty  of  attention,"  and  we  lack  Sitzfleisch; 
we  can't  sit  still  without  twiddling  our  thumbs, 
twitching  our  limbs,  or  working  our  jaws.  We 
are  without  repose,  and,  much  as  we  may  dis 
like  the  idea  of  military  service,  it  turns  out 
well-behaved  young  men,  not  a  mob  of  jumping- 
jacks.  Our  indifference  to  the  finer  shades  is 
the  result  of  our  selfishness.  It  is  not  a  ques 
tion  of  men  treating  women  impolitely  —  though 
it  is  exceptional  —  but  of  man's  impoliteness  to 

56 


THE   MATRIX 

man.  Perhaps  more  subways  will  modify  the 
evil.  By  that  time  we  shall  have  lost  all  our 
manners. 

I  know  it  is  the  stereotyped  thing  to  say  that 
New  York  crowds  are  good-natured.  Good- 
natured  is  hardly  the  word  —  timid,  cringing, 
cowardly  are  better  words.  An  English  or  a 
German  or  a  French  crowd  wouldn't  endure 
for  a  minute  the  slights  put  upon  our  crowds 
by  impertinent  petty  officials.  In  no  country 
are  personal  rights  less  respected.  I  know  the 
Subway  guards  are  much-suffering,  and  that  as 
a  body  they  are  superior  to  the  "L"  road  guards, 
who  are  dirty  as  to  attire  and  discourteous  to  a 
degree.  They  tell  me  that  the  companies  pay 
starvation  wages,  but  why  should  the  public 
suffer?  I'll  tell  you  why  —  a  whisper,  mind 
you !  —  in  Greater  New  York  the  public  is  a 
flock  of  stupid  sheep. 

II 

Pretty  girls  in  our  city !  Lots  of  them.  In 
the  Subway  at  morn  and  eve  you  can  count  the 
plain  ones.  These  girls  are  of  many  nation 
alities.  They  all  dress  above  their  station,  wear 
clothes  that  are  manifestly  cheap,  in  imitation 
of  prevailing  fashionable  modes.  When  they 
cease  imitating  there  is  no  more  hope  of  social 
ambition  and  social  ascension.  We  have  no 
peasant  class  in  America.  No  self-respecting 
woman  will  dress  according  to  her  "class" 
or  her  means,  either  —  for  she  is  ever  hopeful 

57 


THE   MATRIX 

that  her  "class"  will  be  a  better  one,  or  that 
her  daughters  will  marry  "above"  them.  This 
social  hopefulness  is  nation-wide.  It  is  our 
Bovaryism,  our  vital  lie.  The  ragpicker's  grand 
daughter  marries  a  duke;  the  son  of  a  peddler 
becomes  a  magnate  in  the  financial  world.  No 
other  land  affords  such  opportunities  in  mounting 
the  ladder  of  life;  otherwise  the  million  that  an 
nually  invade  our  shore  would  not  be  in  evidence. 
When  immigration  ceases  it  will  mean  that  the 
rats  are  leaving  the  sinking  ship  of  state.  But 
I  can't  help  wishing  the  foreign  invasion  would 
go  elsewhere.  New  York  is  full  to  the  brim. 
A  few  more  plagues  of  locusts  and  the  entire 
land  will  be  as  bare  as  a  bone. 

Yes,  pretty  girls,  a  bit  too  rouged,  too  flimsily 
attired,  but  clean  and  self-respecting.  The  old- 
time  chlorotic  American  type  is  vanishing; 
thanks  to  open-air  exercise  and  increased  physi 
cal  and  mental  activities,  our  girls,  native  or 
imported,  are  very  vital.  Foreigners,  accus 
tomed  to  a  more  placid  and  conventional  type 
at  home,  find  them  irresistible,  chewing-gum 
and  twang  included.  I  find  that  the  brunette, 
the  brown  as  well  as  black,  is  in  the  ascendant. 
But  there  are  blondes  enough,  and  the  blonde 
is  for  the  public  the  high-water  mark  of  beauty. 
The  stage  and  the  vaudeville  prove  this.  Bigger 
frames  are  to  be  seen  than  a  decade  ago;  the 
foreign-born  women,  however,  are  mostly  under 
sized.  On  the  avenues  the  shopping  women  are 
alike;  whether  in  Brooklyn  or  the  Bronx,  the 

58 


THE   MATRIX 

huntress  stalks  her  bargain  game  like  her  sister. 
In  the  theatre  or  at  home  she  is  more  human. 
They  say  that  only  women  buy  and  read 
books,  fill  the  opera-house  and  the  theatre  —  also 
the  film  shows.  But  does  that  account  for  the 
present  condition  of  American  culture?  Is  the 
inside  of  her  pretty  head  not  as  distinguished 
as  her  gowns  ?  Perish  the  thought !  Let  some 
man  more  courageous  than  I  answer  that  ques 
tion.  Max  Nordau  did,  but  then  the  little  Doc 
tor  never  lived  in  New  York. 

Emerson  says  that  "steam  is  almost  English." 
Then  electricity  must  be  American.  That  po 
tentate  who,  fearing  the  thunderbolt,  built  him 
self  a  palace  underground,  and  there  was  slain 
by  the  lightning  he  had  tried  to  evade,  would 
be  distrusted  if  to-day  he  could  revisit  the 
glimpses  of  the  moon.  In  the  bowels  of  New 
York  he  might  find  immunity  from  the  light 
ning  stroke,  but  he  would  find  there  lightning, 
though  harnessed.  What  would  the  Subway 
be  without  the  electric  "juice"?  It  wouldn't 
be  at  all,  for  we  could  never  have  endured  so 
patiently  the  choking  atmosphere  of  the  Under 
ground  before  Theodore  Dreiser's  hero,  the 
Titan,  gave  London  electricity  instead  of  steam 
and  smoke. 

I  am  old  enough  and  sentimental  enough  to 
miss  the  locomotive,  which  man  built  as  an 
image  of  himself  —  puffing,  hissing,  shrill,  and 
stubborn,  and  fast-running.  A  locomotive  is 
very  human,  not  specifically  English,  as  Emer- 

59 


THE  MATRIX 

son  said.  It  breathes,  it  is  alive,  whereas  the 
electric  motor,  while  more  subtle,  is  also  more 
treacherous.  Less  noisy,  it  is  less  sociable  and 
never  greedily  consumes  coal  lumps  as  does 
the  hungry  locomotive.  Ruskin  loathed  steam. 
Would  he  have  loved  electricity?  I  doubt  it. 
Overhead  the  electric  motor  is  as  noisy  as  a 
launch  without  a  muffler.  Even  in  the  air  man 
must  chatter. 

One  day  I  conceived  the  bold  notion  of  going 
under  the  North  River  by  the  tubes.  I  had 
made  the  trip  to  Brooklyn  via  the  tunnel  and 
lived  to  tell  the  tale.  But  New  Jersey  was  a 
different  matter.  It  was  practically  foreign 
soil  and  farther  away.  I  went  from  Cortlandt 
Street,  and  was  disappointed  when  I  got  to  Jer 
sey  City  so  soon.  That  spot,  like  Long  Island 
City,  is  not  to  be  tarried  in.  Oblivious  of  the 
fact  that  I  could  have  taken  the  elevator  to  the 
street  surface,  I  toiled  up  a  twisting  staircase, 
as  fine  a  place  for  sandbagging,  garotting,  and 
highway  robbery  as  I  ever  saw  outside  of  an 
engraving  by  the  fantastic  Piranesi.  The  day 
was  a  rainy  one.  The  lights  were  dim,  the  steps 
many.  I  was  both  grateful  and  disheartened 
when  I  reached  the  open.  Why  Jersey  City? 
"  Vous  1'avez  voulu,  George  Dandin,"  as  the  say 
ing  is  in  the  old  Moliere  comedy.  I  had  disem 
barked  at  Jersey  City  when  I  wanted  to  go  to 
Hoboken.  The  matter  was  soon  readjusted. 
I  asked  the  advice  of  the  elevator  man  and  he 
pointed  out  a  ferry-house.  But  I  didn't  care 
60 


THE   MATRIX 

to  return  to  my  native  land.  Then  he  sug 
gested,  go  down-stairs  and  take  the  train  to 
Hoboken.  How  simple  it  all  sounded.  I  got 
into  the  right  car  —  it  goes  no  farther,  I  was  told 
—  and  came  up  near  the  Hamburg- American 
docks;  farther  up  fluttered  the  flag  of  the 
North  German  Lloyd,  and  the  surroundings 
looked  pleasantly  familiar. 

By  some  psychic  process  of  reasoning,  which 
only  Hugo  Mtinsterberg  could  explain,  the 
thought  of  Hoboken,  the  sight  of  "Hapag," 
made  me  aware  of  Meyer's  and  Naegeli's  ho 
tels  on  another  street.  Auto-suggestion  ?  Tour 
ists  who  are  unhappy  enough  to  stay  overnight 
in  Hoboken  during  the  mosquito  season  never 
miss  Meyer's  hospitable  garden,  where  the  cool 
brew  flows.  Not  to  stop  there,  if  only  for  a 
drink,  is  to  miss  one  of  the  delights  of  foreign 
travel.  I  wasn't  dreaming  of  sailing  to  Europe, 
yet  did  I  hurry  over  to  Meyer's  later  and  rested 
my  fatigued  organs.  Also  moistened  them  as 
I  read  Jugend  and  other  publications. 

I  returned  by  another  tube;  this  time  I  came 
out  at  Fourteenth  Street.  The  cars  are  the  most 
spacious,  clean,  and  comfortable  of  all  the  sub 
ways.  I  paid  five  cents  from  the  Terminal  Build 
ing  to  Jersey  City,  paid  five  cents  to  New  York. 
But  why  did  I  have  to  pay  an  extra  two  cents 
at  Fourteenth  or  Twenty -third  or  Thirty- third 
Street?  Is  this  one  more  McAdoo  about  noth 
ing?  What  joy  to  stamp  one's  native  asphalt ! 
I  celebrated  by  riding  down  to  Herrvater  Liichow 
61 


THE  MATRIX 

and  bored  him  with  the  recital  of  my  adventure. 
I  noted,  in  the  Hudson  tunnels,  that  I  did  not 
suffer  from  the  oppression  I  always  experience 
crossing  under  the  East  River.  In  the  Penn 
sylvania  tunnels  the  pressure  at  the  temples  is 
also  severe.  The  air  is  closer  than  in  the  Sub 
way  tubes. 

A  mania  for  movement,  a  wanderlust  seized 
me  after  the  New  Jersey  trip.  I  went  to  the 
Bronx  via  the  tunnel,  I  went  to  Two  Hundred 
and  Forty-second  Street  and  Broadway.  It  is 
a  pity  that  the  Subway  is  not  altogether  an 
elevated  road  in  those  remote  parts.  The  views 
are  wonderful.  It  was  Ernest  Lawson  who  dis 
covered,  artistically  speaking,  the  Harlem  River 
and  the  unknown  reaches  of  the  Bronx.  His 
gorgeously  rich  palette  comes  happily  into  play, 
for  there  may  be  seen  tender,  pigeon-blue  skies, 
splendid,  thoughtful  trees,  capricious,  tumbled 
rocks,  and  gleaming  waterways.  His  best 
themes  are  found  near  the  Harlem  River. 

For  the  Bronx  I  have  a  weakness,  especially 
the  park  and  the  Zoo.  When  I  had  ridden  in 
every  subway  —  also  in  the  new  Chambers 
Street  to  Myrtle  Avenue  and  Ridgewood  branch, 
which  crosses  the  Williamsburg  Bridge  —  I 
hunted  up  the  Belmont  tubes  and  the  old  Stein- 
way  tunnel.  Really,  the  police  of  New  York 
are  obliging  men.  At  the  Queensboro  Bridge, 
Fifty-ninth  Street,  a  sandy-haired  officer  broke 
the  news  to  me  as  gently  as  if  I  had  been  a  rela 
tive.  No,  the  Belmont  tubes  at  East  Forty- 
62 


THE  MATRIX 

second  Street  were  not  yet  visible,  nor  the  Stein- 
way  tunnel.  I  saw  that  he  looked  at  me 
curiously.  I  must  have  seemed  a  greenhorn. 
"If  you  want  to  go  to  Long  Island  City,"  he 
added,  "and  I  don't  see  why  any  one  should  want 
to  go  there"  —  he  paused  and  I  abetted  his  sly- 
dog  humour  with  vacant  laughter—  "just  cross 
the  ferry."  In  thanking  him  I  explained  that 
my  mistake  had  arisen  because  once  in  the  de 
parted  old  Grand  Union  Cafe  I  had  jumped  at  a 
severe  blast  under  the  hotel.  "  Oh,  that's  noth 
ing,"  said  Simeon  Ford  to  me;  "that's  the  way 
they  send  passengers  to  Astoria."  And  I  had 
believed  him,  in  the  innocence  of  my  metro 
politan  heart.  The  sandy-haired  one  smiled. 
He  knew  Simeon. 

Then  I  took  to  the  bridges  and  ferries.  I 
went  to  Staten  Island  and  wasn't  sorry;  crossed 
to  Jersey  by  several  routes  and  was.  The  old 
ferries  at  Wall,  Grand,  and  Forty-second  Streets 
at  first  proved  picturesque,  and  soon  palled. 
Brooklyn  Bridge,  after  all,  more  beautiful  than 
her  three  sisters  (bridge  is  feminine,  isn't  it?), 
the  most  graceful  suspension  bridge  in  the  world, 
is  become  too  familiar.  We  cross  it,  and  seldom 
afoot,  thus  missing  that  magnificent  panorama 
of  architecture,  bay,  islands,  and  distant  Jersey 
shore.  Besides,  its  Brooklyn  side  lacks  the 
dignity  and  space  of  the  Flatbush  Avenue  ap 
proach  to  Manhattan  Bridge.  That,  indeed,  is 
most  impressive.  On  Sunday  mornings  the 
Jewish  market  is  one  of  the  sights  of  the  town. 

63 


THE  MATRIX 

I  like  the  Williamsburg  Bridge,  with  its  long 
perspective  of  Delancey  Street,  now  giving  us  a 
European  vista,  and  its  big  playground  atop. 
The  view  is  puzzling.  You  look  for  the  two 
adjacent  bridges  and  your  glance  collides  with 
the  sugar-refinery  across  the  river,  which  at  this 
part  is  all  askew.  You  must  twist  your  head  to 
see  the  other  bridges.  Returning,  you  note  the 
Queensboro  Bridge,  and  decide  to  visit  it.  It  is 
a  strange  structure  and  a  cantalever;  as  it  is, 
I  feel  safer  on  Brooklyn  Bridge.  The  best  part 
of  the  Queensboro  is  just  over  BlackwelPs  Island. 

There  is  material  for  observation  that  takes 
days  to  exhaust.  The  various  bridges  spanning 
the  Harlem  become  more  attractive  the  farther 
one  goes  westward.  Several  are  excellent  for 
suicidal  purposes.  They  all  look  like  Ernest 
Lawsons,  so  strangely  does  nature  pattern  after 
art.  As  for  the  possible  bridges  to  cross  the 
lordly  Hudson,  I  hope  never  to  see  them.  As 
a  spectacle  those  waters  need  no  bridging.  Tun 
nels  are  always  more  expeditious.  Doubtless 
some  day  both  rivers  will  make  of  Greater  New 
York  greatest  New  York,  for  they  will  be  solidly 
bridged;  anyhow,  the  East  River.  So  mote  it 
be! 

m 

New  York,  intimately  seen  in  the  summer, 
its  family  wash  on  the  line,  all  its  linen  not  spot 
less — ah,  the  lure  of  the  hanging  gardens ! — make 
us  forget  Babylon,  and  its  millions  are  as  ghosts. 

64 


THE  MATRIX 

I  said  something  of  the  sort  to  the  man  with 
the  megaphone  —  the  dry-land  Don  Quixote 
who  whispers  information  atop  of  one  of  the 
sightseeing  coaches.  His  answer  was  charac 
teristic:  "If  I  never  saw  Babylon  again  I 
shouldn't  be  sorry.  What  with  hanging  on  a 
bumping  coach,  talking  through  my  hat,  and 
dodging  banana  peels  and  dead  cats  on  Riving- 
ton  Street,  I  yearn  for  the  old  farm  at  La  Man- 
cha."  He  was  playing  up  to  me,  for  he  knew 
I  had  compared  him  to  the  Knight  of  the  Rue 
ful  Countenance.  So  the  Don  let  me  see  that 
he  was  familiar  with  the  topography  of  a  Span 
ish  city.  He  also  said  Dulcinea  and  Rozinante 
with  clear,  firm  articulation.  Evidently  a  man 
of  superior  parts.  Needless  to  add,  that  Sancho 
Panza  was  the  chauffeur. 

But  unless  you  only  care  to  scratch  the  sur 
face,  those  sightseeing  tours  are  far  from  satis 
factory,  though  excellent  experience  for  a  bud 
ding  novelist.  Naturally  Chinatown  is  only  a 
sham  and  the  much- vaunted  Bowery  a  bore. 
On  a  warm  afternoon  the  up-town  ride  along 
Riverside  Drive  —  barring  the  ducking  of  tree 
branches  —  is  agreeable;  but  going  southward 
you  are  bumped  on  the  abominable  Broadway 
with  its  rude  wooden  roadway,  and  to  see  only 
the  basements  of  high  buildings  is  not  exactly 
seeing  them  from  afar.  Besides,  you  are  stared 
at,  sometimes  jeered.  The  offensive  "Hay 
seed  ! "  is  flung  at  you,  and  you  really  must  be 
alert  on  some  of  the  crowded  East  Side  streets 

65 


THE  MATRIX 

to  avoid  rotten  fruit  meant  for  your  head  by 
some  malicious  youngster. 

I  fancy  the  idea  of  the  coach  doesn't  please 
many  people  in  that  district.  It  seems  an  im 
pertinent  intrusion,  and  then  there  is  always 
the  chance  of  an  accident.  The  chauffeur  is 
cautious,  Don  Quixote  diplomatic.  Neverthe 
less  I  held  my  breath  several  times  near  Mul 
berry  Bend;  children  there  are  as  plentiful  as 
that  fruit  in  season,  and  they  are  both  careless 
and  reckless.  We  were  held  up  by  a  street-car 
(there  is  still  one  in  operation)  on  a  particularly 
narrow  street.  A  well-dressed  man,  an  artisan 
or  a  barber,  cursed  us:  "You  rich  think  you  can 
come  down  here  and  kill  our  children!"  he 
cried  in  excellent  English,  shaking  his  fist  all 
the  while.  His  hands,  I  noted,  were  clean. 

Don  Quixote  shook  his  head  mournfully. 
"Rich?"  he  muttered.  "Rich?"  we  echoed. 
There  wasn't  a  man  in  the  excursion  who  didn't 
carry  a  cheap  silver  watch.  We  were  glad  to 
start.  That  accusation  was  too  much  for  our 
bank-accounts.  We  blushed  at  the  very  im 
putation  of  wealth. 

I'm  sure  I  shall  be  accused  of  inconsistency 
when  I  say  I'm  not  shamed  by  the  East  Side.  I 
know  that  the  poverty  there  is  appalling,  that 
people  are  packed  as  in  a  pickle  jar,  that  crime 
and  disease  stalk  in  company  with  hunger  and 
dirt,  yet  these  horrible  conditions  are  not  on  view 
for  the  casual  spectator.  I  never  had  the  cour 
age  to  explore  one  of  the  old-fashioned  crowded 
66 


THE  MATRIX 

tenement-houses.  If  he  has  been  in  London  he 
knows  that  the  East  End  is  the  last  word  in 
revolting  conditions.  Or  Paris,  or  the  Berlin 
North  Side,  or  the  Ghetto  in  Vienna.  Over 
some  of  these  places  is  written:  "All  hope  aban 
don  ye  who  enter  here!"  None  of  these  spots 
is  as  cheerful,  as  clean,  or  as  prosperous  as  the 
East  Side  of  New  York.  It  is  more  crowded 
than  it  was  ten  years  ago,  and  more  attractive. 
Take  Rivington,  or  Hester,  or  Essex/or  any  street 
in  the  network  of  that  congested  district,  and 
while  you  make  slow  progress  through  the  mob 
of  children,  women,  peddlers'  carts,  vegetable 
and  fish  shops,  men  and  babies,  this  crowd 
doesn't  seem  in  the  last  gasp  of  poverty.  It  is 
noisy,  dirty,  chattering,  chaffering,  and  good- 
tempered.  It  is  the  air  of  New  York,  that 
electric  ozone  which  makes  for  optimism. 

Where  there  is  so  much  srnoke  there  is  sure 
to  be  fire;  and  the  fire  is  the  money  spent  on 
food  and  fruit  and  at  the  "movies."  The  smell 
of  fish  is  never  absent.  As  for  the  types,  they 
are  marked.  The  old  division  of  Little  Italy, 
New  Jerusalem,  Bohemia,  Germany,  Servia, 
Greece,  and  other  nationalities  no  longer  holds. 
The  Jews  are  everywhere;  so  are  the  Italians 
and  Czechs.  Some  predominate  in  certain 
quarters;  for  example,  you  will  find  many  Bo 
hemians  along  First  Avenue,  Avenue  A,  and 
Avenue  B  above  Fifty-ninth  Street;  Italians 
still  congregate  about  the  Bend,  and  there  are 
many  Poles  hard  by  Tompkins  Square. 
67 


THE  MATRIX 

If  I  had  a  friend  who  was  desirous  of  seeing 
certain  parts  of  southeastern  European  cities  — 
of  Lemberg,  where  cluster  Galician  Jews;  of 
Vienna,  Prague,  St.  Petersburg,  Warsaw,  Cra 
cow,  even  of  Berlin  and  Naples  —  I  would  invite 
him  for  a  week's  cruise  on  our  East  Side.  There 
is  no  necessity  of  going  across  the  water  to  hear 
foreign  tongues,  see  odd  costumes  or  study 
strange  physiognomies.  They  are  all  on  view 
day  and  night  in  New  York,  the  only  New  Cos- 
mopolis  on  the  globe.  Every  nation  is  repre 
sented;  each  has  its  cafe,  its  newspaper,  its 
church,  its  theatre.  Optimism  rules  the  roast. 
The  "unwritten  law"  over  there  is:  Crescite  et 
multiplicamini !  Maternity  hospitals  are  every 
where,  so  are  baby  carriages.  This  huge  ant 
hill  is  the  matrix  of  New  York,  its  nursery,  its 
refutation  of  race  suicide. 

If  you  cross  Canal  Street  eastward  from 
Third  Avenue  you  will  emerge  in  Rutgers  Square 
and  East  Broadway.  The  entire  district  might 
be  called  a  show-place,  not  as  an  evil  example, 
but  as  a  normal  East  Side  neighbourhood.  With 
a  schoolhouse,  a  public  library,  a  park,  and  a 
big  newspaper  office,  this  square  is  typically 
civilised.  Free  from  dirt,  full  of  busy,  bustling 
humanity  and  contented,  romping  children,  for 
me  it  is  representative  of  present  conditions  in 
the  life  of  the  New  York  poor.  Not  that  these 
people  consider  themselves  the  poorest  —  they 
do  not;  but  they  are  not  rich,  though  some  are 
fairly  well  to  do. 

68 


THE  MATRIX 

At  Maisel's  bookstore  on  East  Grand  Street 
you  will  find  the  best  literature  of  the  world; 
indeed,  more  good  literature  than  you  can  find 
at  similar  establishments  farther  west.  The 
East  Side  is  an  omnivorous  reader.  Stupendous 
is  the  amount  of  books  studied  and  digested; 
books  of  solid  worth,  not  "best  sellers"  or  other 
flimflam  alleged  "literature."  As  a  nation  we 
are  becoming  as  superficial  in  our  reading  as 
we  are  in  our  taste  for  the  theatre.  Our  native 
theatre  has  nearly  touched  low-water  mark,  and 
the  film  theatre  —  that  twin  brother  to  dime 
novels  —  is  only  a  degree  lower;  stupidity  and 
vulgarity  in  two  instead  of  three  dimensions. 

You  would  smile  if  I  told  you  that  there  is  not 
much  drinking  in  this  quarter;  they  are  not 
addicted  to  alcohol  and  they  do  love  sweetmeats. 
I  can  count  the  places  on  the  East  Side  where 
good  Pilsner  is  on  tap.  The  Russians,  Poles, 
Ruthenians,  Greeks,  and  Servians  are  not  beer 
drinkers,  though  the  Bohemians  are.  As  a  mat 
ter  of  record  there  is  less  drunkenness  in  New 
York  than  in,  say,  Glasgow — that  is  in  propor 
tion  to  their  respective  populations.  London 
is  infinitely  more  intemperate. 

I  went  through  Broome  Street  and  saw  its 
solitary  tree  —  it  is  there  yet,  near  Attorney 
Street,  or  some  such  street.  I  thought  of  the 
Ancient  Mariner  when  I  saw  that  tree,  lonely 
but  tough-minded,  as  William  James  would  have 
said. 

Two  decades  ago  Mr.  Howells  wrote  that  if 
69 


THE  MATRIX 

any  American  novelist  struck  a  note  as  pro 
foundly  tragic  as  Dostoievsky  it  would  be  false 
to  our  social  conditions.  But  since  then  the 
temperament  of  the  country  has  changed,  owing 
to  immigration.  There  is  tragic  chaos  and  the 
hurly-burly  of  the  deracinated  about  us. 

It  would  demand  the  resources  of  a  Dos 
toievsky  to  paint  our  East  Side  in  all  its  exotic, 
variegated,  and  bewildering  colours.  No  genius 
of  less  calibre  than  that  of  Fyodor  Mihailo- 
vitch's  could  essay  the  giant  task.  Where  is 
he?  Here  is  the  raw,  rich  material  for  the 
great  American  novel.  But  where  is  the  novel 
ist?  Let  me  suggest  that  only  an  American  of 
Celtic  brilliancy,  Teutonic  profundity,  English 
intellectuality,  French  art,  and  the  idealism  of 
the  Slavic  Hebrew  could  compass  the  theme. 

In  Europe  there  is  room  for  race  prejudice, 
but  not  in  America.  Here  it  is  self-stultifying, 
self-contradicting,  and  utterly  abhorrent  to 
democratic  principles.  We  freed  the  black  race, 
we  must  free  ourselves  of  all  race  prejudice. 
We  need  the  Jewish  blood  as  spiritual  leaven; 
the  race  is  art-loving  and  will  prove  a  barrier 
to  the  rapidly  growing  wave  of  fanatical  puri- 
tanism.  Nevertheless,  at  the  expense  of  seem 
ing  inconsistent,  let  me  suggest  that  one  of  the 
burdens  of  life  would  be  lightened  if  our  passen 
ger  transportation  system  were  otherwise.  The 
greedy  and  not  too  tidy  bandits  who  run  the 
wretched  public  automobiles  are  only  the  ser 
vants  of  their  employers.  But  these  miserably 
70 


THE  MATRIX 

kept  machines  are  too  high-priced  for  the  masses. 
In  Subway  and  surface,  on  "L"  cars  the  people 
you  meet  are  not  always  clean:  some  because 
of  ingrained  hatred  of  bathing;  others,  decent 
working  men  who  can't  help  themselves.  I've 
frequently  seen  them  embarrassed  when  they 
crowded  against  well-dressed  ladies.  What  do 
you  expect  for  a  nickel?  But  if  they  did  as 
they  so  sensibly  do  in  Europe  —  have  two  or 
three  classes  at  a  slight  increase  of  fare  —  we 
could  snap  our  fingers  at  the  hired  automobile 
tyrants. 

Theoretically,  we  all  love  our  fellow  man ;  but 
you  like  him  better  if  he  is  clean,  don't  you  ?  I 
do.  And  now,  don't  imagine  this  suggestion 
is  a  covert  attack  on  our  immortal  principle  of 
equality.  It  is  not.  The  motor-cars  might  be 
judged  from  the  same  standpoint.  I  can't 
afford  a  motor-car,  but  I  could  scrape  together 
ten  cents  for  a  seat  in  a  clean,  sweet-smelling  car, 
where  the  filthiest  sort  of  humans  would  not 
sprawl  over  me.  One  man  is  as  good  as  an 
other —  politically;  but  if  a  man  won't  wash, 
that  is  the  objection  to  his  presence.  But  what 
Mayor,  what  Board  of  Aldermen  wouldn't  veto 
a  bill  to  have  separate  cars  !  Class  against  mass 
would  be  the  slogan,  when  the  only  issue  in  ques 
tion  is  soap  versus  dirt. 

I  know  I'm  voicing  the  opinion  of  a  civilised 
minority.  But  there,  again,  come  into  play  the 
timid  tactics  of  our  local  sheepfold.  At  first 
jeered,  these  separate  cars  would  become  a 


THE  MATRIX 

necessity,  like  the  ten-cent  stages  on  Fifth  Ave 
nue.  Has  anybody  denounced  as  "enemies  of 
the  people"  these  coaches?  No,  because  the 
" people"  ride  in  them  and  like  them.  Until 
New  York  follows  London,  Paris,  and  Berlin 
and  maintains  an  efficient  and  cheap  taxicab 
service  we  must  clamour  for  the  next  best  thing 
-  ten-cent  surface  and  Subway  cars.  They 
would  soon  pay.  But  I  suppose  the  great  god 
Graft  must  be  appeased  by  the  usual  burnt- 
offerings  and  what  we  demand  must  be  de 
ferred  to  the  Greek  Kalends.  Avos  I 

New  York  has  been  called  a  calamity,  a 
freight  yard,  a  boiler-shop,  an  open  trench,  a 
mining  gulch  —  with  its  manners  and  tastes; 
in  reality  it  is  the  most  aggressively  noisy  city 
on  earth.  Mostly  unnecessary  noise.  It  was 
Schopenhauer,  annoyed  by  the  whip-cracking 
of  Frankfort  carters,  who  denounced  noise  as 
a  prime  enemy  of  the  intellect,  denounced  as 
lacking  in  finer  sensibility  a  nation  or  city  that 
endured  noise.  In  our  town  he  would  have  gone 
mad.  And  little  relief  in  sight  for  us. 

As  to  the  increasing  horrors  of  ugly  loft  build 
ing  in  the  very  centre  of  the  residential  section, 
that  is  a  subject  for  sorrow  to  old  New  Yorkers. 
No  law  can  keep  off  these  pernicious  flocks  of 
locusts  who  ruin,  aesthetically  speaking,  where- 
ever  they  alight.  Entire  Manhattan  Island  will 
in  not  so  many  years  become  a  vulgar  Tophet 
of  industrialism.  I  doubt  if  even  the  present 
rush  to  Long  Island  by  manufacturers  will  long 
72 


THE   MATRIX 

avert  the  time  when  belching  chimneys  will  be 
so  closely  built  as  to  swap  smoke,  and  the  nar 
row  streets  crowded  with  chaffering  strangers. 
Ichabod ! 

But  I'm  tiring  you  with  all  this  futile  talk,  and 
I'm  tired  myself  of  the  East  Side.  When  I  left 
the  book-shop  I  went  over  to  the  Vienna  Cafe  on 
Broadway,  a  sort  of  alimentary  modulation 
from  east  to  west,  and  as  I  crossed  Second  Ave 
nue  at  Tenth  Street  I  saw  the  coach  with  Don 
Quixote  on  the  sidestep,  the  machine  quietly 
resting,  the  passengers  as  solemn  as  owls.  The 
megaphone  man  sardonically  smiled  at  me  as  he 
dusted  from  his  coat  some  yellow  particles: 
"  The  highly  civilised  East  Side !  I  got  this  dose 
of  insect-powder  on  Essex  Street."  After  all, 
it  depends  on  the  point  of  view,  doesn't  it? 
"Back  to  La  Mancha!"  I  called  out.  In  reply 
he  waved  his  long  ironic  hand.  He  looked  more 
like  Henry  Irving  than  ever  as  the  coach  slowly 
went  northward.  "Ladies  and  gentlemen  this 
was  once  the  famous  Boulevard  Cafe,"  I  over 
heard,  as  the  rubberneck  wagon  faded  from  view 
up  the  avenue. 


73 


V 

THE  MAW  OF  THE   MONSTER 
I 

THE  mighty  maw  of  New  York !  Even  Zola 
might  have  handled  the  Brobdingnagian  theme 
inadequately.  The  avalanche  of  food  that  is 
swallowed  in  twenty-four  hours  and  the  river 
of  liquid  that  disappears  down  parched  gullets 
on  this  island  —  decidedly,  several  Zolas  would 
have  their  hands  full  in  dealing  with  the  story. 

Statisticians  give  you  rows  of  figures,  but  to 
interpret  the  huge  crude  symbol  is  another 
matter.  You  remember  how  Zola  treated  in 
Le  Ventre  de  Paris  (The  Stomach  of  Paris)  his 
Cheese  Symphony!  Truly  a  Rabelaisian  per 
formance. 

But  New  York  is  double  the  size  of  the  Paris 
of  those  days  (1873),  and  instead  of  one  na 
tional  cuisine  it  boasts  half  a  hundred.  I  am 
at  the  outset  trying  to  show  the  magnitude  of 
the  task,  a  task  I  decline  to  undertake.  But  I 
may  succeed,  after  a  fashion,  in  indicating  the 
resources  of  a  city  wherein  even  Pantagruel 
could  line  his  monstrous  paunch  and  slake  his 
magnificent  thirst. 

74 


THE  MAW  OF  THE  MONSTER 

With  the  possible  exception  of  London,  there 
is  no  place  like  New  York  for  versatility  in  eat 
ing  and  drinking.  Nearly  all  cuisines  are  repre 
sented.  You  can  eat  kosher  or  munch  birds'- 
nests  in  the  Chinese  style;  while  French,  Rus 
sian,  German,  Dutch,  Italian,  Spanish,  Hun 
garian,  Polish,  Austrian,  Turkish,  Syrian,  Ru 
manian,  Greek,  Portuguese,  Cuban,  Mexican, 
Liberian  —  why  drag  out  the  list  ?  —  are  to  be 
found;  everything  from  everywhere  may  be  had 
in  our  city  —  everything  but  fried  oysters  as  they 
cook  them  in  Philadelphia.  And  that  important 
fact  will  be  clearly  set  forth  during  the  course  of 
this  solemn  sermon  on  gluttony. 

It  is  only  natural  when  a  man's  hair  begins 
to  thin  and  he  has  gout  in  the  gums  that  he 
sadly  turns  to  the  "pleasures"  of  memory,  a 
bitter-sweet  game,  the  shadow  of  a  vanished 
substance  (this  is  a  Celtic  bull,  but  it  is  what  I 
mean),  and  one  which  always  sets  the  teeth  on 
edge.  Just  why  the  man  of  the  "lonesome 
latter  years"  should  recall  the  f eastings  of  his 
youth,  I  leave  to  psychologists. 

He  may  have  written  at  least  one  sonnet  or 
story,  he  may  have  painted  a  row  of  brilliant 
portraits  or  landscapes,  yet  set  him  down  before 
a  fire  and  straightway  he  falls  to  musing  about 
the  girls  of  yesteryear  or  that  particular  night 
when  the  wine-cup  was  not  red,  but  champagne- 
coloured.  Or  Finelli's  fried  oysters.  Or  the 
terrapin  of  Augustin  (both  in  Philadelphia).  Or 
the  salads  and  burgundies  at  Delmonico's.  Or 

75 


THE  MAW  OF  THE  MONSTER 

—  and  this  happens,  too  —  the  taste  of  those 
oysters  eaten  fresh  from  the  shell  at  a  cart-tail 
coram  publico,  say,  on  Fulton  Street  three  dec 
ades  ago.  The  miserable  sinner  should  be 
thinking  of  his  soul  and  lo !  his  belly  is  still  his 
god  —  that  is  not  in  reality,  for  he  is  a  dyspeptic 
and  almost  toothless,  and  Uncle  Uric  a  daily 
visitor,  so  it  needs  must  be  only  memory  images, 
and  poor  entertainment  such  recollections  usually 
are.  Mother  Church,  who  has  minutely  cata 
logued  every  nuance  of  transgression,  calls  such 
a  perverse  mental  operation  "morose  delecta 
tion." 

But  it  is  not  of  such  sour  stuff  that  my  dreams 
are  made.  Contrariwise,  I  recall  with  intense 
amusement  the  New  York  restaurants  and  cafes 
of  a  quarter  of  a  century  ago.  Were  they  any 
better  then  than  now?  is  the  inevitable  ques 
tion. 

The  answer  is  that  we  were  younger  then,  our 
appetites  and  teeth  unafraid;  nevertheless,  there 
are  many  changes  and  not  all  for  the  better. 
The  young  folk  nowadays  are  not  epicures. 
Wine  palates  they  have  not;  cocktails  and  the 
common  consumption  of  spirits  have  banished 
all  sense  of  taste  values.  They  are  in  too  much 
of  a  hurry  to  dance  or  to  ride,  to  sit  long  at 
table  and  dine  with  discrimination. 

The  number  of  cheap,  quick-fire  food  hells  is 
appalling.  One  understands  during  the  mid 
day  rush  that  a  glass  of  milk  and  a  slice  of  pie 
suffice,  but  when  the  day's  toil  is  over  and  the 
76 


THE  MAW  OF  THE   MONSTER 

upper  town  achieved,  then  we  expect  leisure 
and  elegance,  taste  in  the  evening  menu.  They 
are  seldom  to  be  found.  Noisy  bands  of  music- 
makers,  ill-cooked  food  and  hastily  gobbled, 
shrieking  instead  of  conversation,  and  then  — 
dancing.  This  is  the  order  of  the  evening. 
The  theatre  is  rapidly  disappearing,  I  mean  the 
real  theatre,  and  only  in  a  few  choice  spots  is 
the  cult  and  ritual  of  dining  observed  and  per 
formed. 

However,  these  few  do  exist,  and  there  you 
will  find  the  remnant  of  a  once-powerful  con 
gregation,  members  of  the  Church  of  the  Holy 
Epicure.  But  they  are  doomed.  Eating  and 
drinking  are  rapidly  entering  the  category  of 
the  lost  fine  arts.  Bolting,  guzzling,  gum  chew 
ing,  and  film  pictures  have  driven  them  away. 

Some  day,  say  hopeful  prophets,  they  will 
return.  I  doubt  it.  Our  age  is  too  material 
istic.  The  noble  ideals  of  the  gourmets  are 
forgotten,  and,  as  Matthew  Arnold  would  ask 
—  in  the  eloquent  phrases  —  slightly  altered  — 
of  Maurice  de  Guerin:  "The  jealous  gods  have 
buried  somewhere  proofs  of  the  origins  of  all 
good  things  to  eat,  but  upon  the  shores  of  what 
ocean  have  they  rolled  the  stone  that  hides 
them,  O  Macareus?" 

When  I  first  drifted  into  town  from  Paris, 
about  1886, 1  was  taken  by  the  late  Hugh  Craig,  a 
cultivated  literary  man  - —  the  genre  still  existed 
in  those  days  —  to  the  cafe  of  "Billy"  Moulds, 
in  University  Place,  a  centre  for  actors,  writers, 

77 


THE  MAW  OF  THE  MONSTER 

artists,  musicians,  as  well  as  business  and  pro 
fessional  men.  There  I  met  the  poet  Francis 
Saltus,  truly  a  brilliant  raconteur;  there  I  ate. — 
on  off  days,  financially  speaking  —  the  magical 
decoction  of  the  Moulds  chef,  a  bean  soup  with 
out  compare.  And  free!  There  I  met  about 
all  the  friends  I  now  possess. 

I  have  seen  editors  of  trade  weeklies,  who 
abused  each  other  with  a  vituperation  that  was 
vitriolic,  forget  the  ardours  of  inky  bottles  and 
drink  harmoniously.  Such  was  the  atmosphere 
of  the  establishment  —  also  the  persuasive  per 
sonality  of  Mr.  Moulds.  I  once  watched  the 
famous  Wagnerian  tenor,  Albert  Niemann,  swal 
lowing  cocktails  from  a  beer-glass.  He  "lived 
to  tell  the  tale"  the  next  night  as  Siegmund  at 
the  opera. 

While  I  was  faithful  to  this  first  hospitable 
house  I  soon  found  mettle  more  to  my  taste  in 
and  around  Union  Square.  Opposite  Steinway 
Hall,  then  the  very  hub  of  musical  New  York 
and  America,  were  Lienau's  and  Maurer's,  and, 
best  of  all,  there  was  a  certain  place  presided 
over  by  a  blue-eyed,  rosy-cheeked  young  Ger 
man,  whose  amiability  was  proverbial,  whose 
beer  was  perfection.  Need  I  add  that  the 
elect  saluted  him  as  "Gus,"  or  that  to-day  he 
is  August  Liichow,  millionaire  importer  and, 
despite  a  few  ounces  extra  of  flesh,  the  same  hos 
pitable  soul  he  ever  was. 

At  Lienau's  there  gathered  such  people  as 
William  Steinway,  then  a  power  in  the  political 

78 


THE  MAW  OF  THE  MONSTER 

and  musical  world,  the  Anton  Seidls,  Theodore 
Thomas,  Wilhelmj,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  C.  F.  Tretbar, 
the  Nahum  Stetsons,  Scharwenka,  Joseffy,  Lilli 
Lehmann,  Frank  Van  der  Stucken,  the  Victor 
Herberts,  Constantine  von  Sternberg,  Rosenthal, 
Max  Heinrich,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Von  Inten  —  the 
very  cream  of  the  musical  aristocracy.  If  you 
tired  of  Lienau's  —  with  the  celebrated  fat  bar 
man  "Schorch,"  you  could  go  over  to  Bru- 
bacher's  or  the  Hotel  Hungaria.  And  then  there 
was  "Andy"  Dam,  host  at  the  Union  Square 
Hotel,  or  Webber's  wine-house  in  Third  Avenue. 
A  genuine  atmosphere  of  Teutonic  "Gemiith- 
lichkeit"  existed  in  those  times  that  are  no  more. 

The  German  theatres  throve,  both  at  the 
Thalia  in  the  Bowery  and  Amberg's  in  Irving 
Place  --  afterward  Conried's,  now  Rudolph 
Christian's.  The  old-fashioned  German  lager- 
beer  saloon  was  still  to  be  found,  comfortable 
havens  with  sand  on  the  floor,  pinochle  on  the 
table,  and  even  a  pure  brew.  Do  you  recall 
Eckstein's,  Grambow's — he  was  in  East  Tenth 
Street  then  —  "Peter,"  in  University  Place; 
"Pat"  Schmenger,  Theiss,  Hubel,  Goerwitz  — 
now  Allaire's  —  Oscar  Pusch  —  afterward  Louis 
Singer  —  Greitner,  with  the  high- tenor  voice; 
Koster  &  Bial's,  Mock's  in  Forty-second  Street, 
and  Terrace  Garden  when  Michael  Heumann 
was  in  charge  ?  Or  the  old  Monico ! 

Some  of  these  places  still  exist,  but  there  is 
one  that  does  not.  Where  Proctor's  Theatre 
now  stands  in  East  Fifty-eighth  Street  was  a 

79 


THE   MAW  OF   THE   MONSTER 

small  brewery  operated  by  Peter  Buckel.  Big 
trees  pierced  the  floors  of  the  piazza,,  and  under 
them  you  could  sit  and  enjoy  yourself;  oppo 
site  was  Terrace  Garden  —  it  is  still  the  same 
old  Terrace  Garden  —  always  filled  with  people. 
The  street  then  reminded  me  of  a  street  in 
Vienna. 

The  old  Cafe  Boulevard  was  worth  while  in 
the  beginning,  before  it  became  a  fashionable 
"slumming"  attraction,  and  the  old  Fleischmann 
Vienna  Cafe,  next  to  Grace  Church,  was  a  centre 
for  Conductor  Anton  Seidl,  Antonin  Dvorak,  the 
Bohemian  composer  —  I  am  forced  to  explain 
who  these  celebrated  musicians  are,  for  the  horde 
of  philistines  that  invade  our  city  know  nothing 
of  art,  little  of  manners,  but  much  of  money- 
getting  —  and  many  visiting  virtuosi;  the  excel 
lent  coffee  was  the  magnet. 

Where  is  the  Grapevine  ?  Where  is  the  spirit 
of  Philip  Brod?  Instead  one  may  go  to  Jans- 
sen's  Hofbraii  on  Broadway  or  to  Sokol  Hall  on 
the  upper  East  Side,  or  to  Kaspar's  old  place 
for  Pilsner;  or,  best  of  all,  to  Dr.  Knirim  of  san 
itarium  fame  in  Pearl  Street,  where  your  thirst 
is  studied  and  prescribed  for  and  where  you  get 
beer  at  a  healthy  temperature,  not  forgetting 
the  privilege  of  capital  conversation  with  the 
worthy  doctor. 

I  have  a  friend  who  devised  on  paper  a  Pils 
ner  route  thirty  years  ago,  starting  from  the 
Widow's  in  Atlantic  Avenue,  Brooklyn,  and 
ending  at  the  West  End  in  One  Hundred  and 
80 


THE  MAW  OF  THE  MONSTER 

Twenty-fifth  Street.  There  were  not  so  many 
of  these  life-saving  stations  then  as  now,  but 
their  paucity  wet  your  expectation,  not  to  say 
your  whistle. 

Another  peculiarity  of  the  long  ago  was  the 
morning  " bracer."  Fancy  champagne  cock 
tails,  a  drink  of  doubtful  virtue,  consumed  by 
the  young  bloods  and  old  bucks.  To-day  it 
would  be  considered  criminal  to  drink  cham 
pagne  at  9  A.  M.  But  they  did  it,  those  copper- 
lined  stomachs.  Now  at  the  worst  they  con 
sume  beer  —  a  wise  change.  Men  seemed  more 
vigorous  to  us  then,  and  seem  more  fidgety  and 
nervous  in  this  year  of  grace.  Perhaps  it  is  an 
illusion. 

There  is  not  so  much  drunkenness  in  public 
or  private  to-day;  social  opinion  is  hostile  to  it. 
The  phenomenal  " tanks"  of  the  eighties  have 
disappeared,  dead  or  converted.  I  remember 
at  the  Everett  House,  since  demolished,  an  old 
codger,  rich  enough  to  own  a  carryall,  in  which 
day  by  day  he  transported  his  thirst  from  tavern 
to  tavern,  winding  up  at  the  Everett.  A  quaint, 
venerable  party,  indeed,  who  grunted,  rather 
than  spoke.  What  an  existence  —  riding  from 
"jag  to  jag"  and  growing  in  wickedness  with 
the  years!  A  character  for  a  novelist,  his. 

The  more  aristocratic  never  went  to  ordinary 
bars,  but  to  the  bar  of  the  Fifth  Avenue  Hotel 
or  the  Hoffman  House  or  the  old  Brunswick  or 
the  Victoria,  where  notabilities,  chiefly  political, 
were  as  cheap  as  nuts.  We  went  to  the  St. 
81 


THE  MAW  OF  THE  MONSTER 

James  when  Dorval  was  there,  or  to  Reisen- 
weber's  at  the  Circle  when  genial  John  was  all 
over  his  establishment.  Really,  personality 
counted  then.  Now  you  rush  in  as  you  would 
to  a  drug  store,  gulp  and  away.  For  little  cafes 
like  Philip  Brod's,  near  the  New  York  Athletic 
Club,  the  personality  of  the  host  was  its  main 
stay.  Think  of  the  old  Arena  when  William 
Muschenheim  was  on  deck.  What  a  joyful 
spot  it  was!  Probably  one  of  the  reasons  that 
" Jack's"  (John  Dunstan's)  cafe  is  liked  so  much 
is  the  promenading  between  tables  nightly  of  its 
stately  host.  Personality  still  counts  in  an  age 
of  "canned  music"  and  automatic  lunch  taverns. 
However,  no  one  need  suffer  for  a  drink  in  New 
York,  despite  the  puritanical  antics  of  the  pro 
hibitionists  (for  revenue). 

II 

By  a  decided  negative  must  be  answered  the 
question:  Are  the  chop-houses  as  good  as  of 
yore?  (Have  you  ever  noticed  when  people 
begin  to  talk  of  English  cookery  they  say  "yore" 
or  "anent,"  as  they  say  "oui"  at  Mouquin's,  or 
"  ausgezeichnet "  at  Liichow's?)  No,  they  are 
not,  and  you  may  point  out  a  lot  of  places  and 
I'll  say:  These  are  gorgeous  establishments,  but 
where  are  the  fat  English  mutton-chops,  the 
musty  old  ale,  and,  don't  let  us  forget  it,  the 
peaceful  atmosphere  ? 

At  Browne's,  then  in  a  side  street  off  Broad- 
82 


THE  MAW  OF  THE  MONSTER 

way,  you  were  at  your  ease.  In  Adam  Engel's 
it  was  the  same.  Or  at  the  Studio  in  Sixth 
Avenue,  or  Stewart's,  or  Wallace's,  Martin's,  or 
numerous  places  in  the  lower  part  of  the  town 
whose  very  names  I've  forgotten.  And  where  has 
gone  Parker's,  which  stood  in  Sixth  Avenue  near 
Thirty-fourth  Street?  In  Fourth  Avenue,  at 
Twenty-first  Street,  was  a  chop-house  kept  by 
a  German  named  Eschbach.  It  was  small,  but 
delightful.  There,  once  upon  a  time,  I  listened 
an  entire  evening  to  the  muted  conversation  of 
Rudyard  Kipling,  who  was  piloted  to  the  house 
by  his  brother-in-law,  Wolcott  Balestier.  Here 
assembled  nightly  actors,  mostly  from  the 
Lyceum  Theatre,  in  the  palmy  days  of  Daniel 
Frohman,  and  there  came  the  prince  of  talkers, 
Maurice  Barrymore. 

I  was  sorry  to  see  Eschbach's  go,  though  I  Ve 
no  doubt  "Jack's,"  Healey's,  Browne's — now  in 
Broadway  —  are  just  as  good.  But  I'm  not  as 
good,  and  that  is  the  pith  of  all  rambling  mem 
ories  by  old  blades  with  a  grudge  against  pres 
ent  conditions.  (Grouch  is  a  more  fashionable 
word.)  You  would  if  you  could,  but  you  can't ! 
Anyhow,  in  my  prime  —  and  I'm  not  yet  pre 
cisely  tottering  —  they  didn't  call  a  Welsh  rabbit 
a  "rarebit."  (That's  a  knockout  for  pot-house 
aesthetics !) 

One  oyster  house  at  least  shows  but  little 
change,  except  in  its  increased  clientele.  I 
mean  Dorlon's.  I  think  there  was  a  Dorlon's 
down-town  somewhere.  Fulton  Market,  wasn't 

83 


THE  MAW  OF  THE  MONSTER 

it?  I  only  frequented  the  Madison  Square  res 
taurant  with  the  oyster  clock  outside.  What 
jokes  have  been  made  by  men  (a  trifle  how  come 
ye  so!)  about  that  clock.  "I  was  up  to  'Y' 
minutes  past  'O,'"  cries  one  chap,  and  is  con 
vulsed  at  his  own  nimble  wit.  Alas !  the  pathos 
of  distant  humour.  Silsbe's  is  still  in  existence 
in  Brooklyn,  near  John  Ryan's  famous  Pilsner 
station  (wireless). 

Do  they  still  eat  macaroni  and  consume 
Chianti  in  New  York?  If  they  do,  show  me  a 
Moretti  —  like  the  old  Moretti  in  Fourteenth 
and  in  Twenty-first  Streets  —  a  Martinelli  (in 
Fifth  Avenue),  a  Solari — in  University  Place  — 
a  Riccadonna  in  Union  Square,  or  even  a 
Pedro's,  in  Centre  Street.  The  truth  is  that 
there  are  hundreds  of  Italian  restaurants  where 
the  spaghetti  and  the  wine  (Californian)  are  as 
good  as  at  Moretti's.  Ah !  but  the  old  man 
could  cook.  Those  veal-chops,  the  spaghetti, 
rich  and  abundant,  and  the  oily  salad !  Excla 
mation-points  fail  to  express  the  gustatory  sen 
sations  at  Moretti's.  Another  restaurant  where 
personality  was  a  heavy  asset. 

At  Pedro's,  down-town,  discovered  by  news 
paper  men,  the  surroundings  were  simple  to  the 
point  of  dusty  napkins  and  faded  wall-paper,  but 
all  was  forgiven  because  of  the  flavour.  Now 
we  eat  to  the  accompaniment  of  delirious  tango 
music,  pay  tips  to  greedy  Greeks,  and  go  to  bed 
hungry  for  a  savoury  dish. 

Cockroach  Hall,  so  nicknamed,  was  farther 

84 


THE  MAW  OF  THE  MONSTER 

up-town,  and  it  was  well  patronised  till  the  ru 
mour  got  out  that  cockroaches  were  seen  float 
ing  in  the  soup  a  menestrone.  After  that  I  went 
over  to  Maria  del  Prato's  in  West  Twelfth 
Street,  where  "Mickey  Finn"  threw  bread  at 
you  and  you  liked  the  poetic  attention.  (Maria 
retired  in  affluent  circumstances  and  was  last 
seen  by  Vance  Thompson  in  Venice,  healthy 
and  homesick  for  Gotham.) 

Both  the  Mouquins'  restaurants,  up  and  down 
town,  are  about  the  same  as  they  ever  were. 
But  a  pure  French  cuisine  in  New  York  is  not 
possible.  The  "custom  of  the  country"  inter 
venes,  meaning  the  palate,  and  imperceptibly  a 
chef  adapts  himself  to  his  environment.  Never 
theless  we  have  here  a  true  cosmopolitan  cuisine, 
from  green  corn  to  caviare,  from  snails  to  clams. 

In  the  old  days  you  singled  out  certain  restau 
rants  for  certain  dishes.  At  Sieghortner's,  in 
Lafayette  Place  (now  Street),  or  at  Heim's,  in 
Twenty- seventh  Street  (near  the  old  Browne 
chop-house),  you  were  served  with  German 
dishes  of  the  rarest,  also  the  most  expensive. 
Liichow's,  where  delicacies  gathered  from  the 
four  quarters  of  the  globe  may  be  had,  has  not  a 
cheap  tariff;  indeed,  it  is  a  costly  one,  but  the 
two  Germans  I  mention  were  very  dear  for  those 
days. 

One  item  was  the  Rhine  and  Moselle  wine  — 
the  best  bouquets,  together  with  imported  hare 
—  a  luxury  then  —  and  Canada  mutton  —  an 
other  luxury,  but  not  now  —  and  you  paid  a 

85 


THE  MAW  OF  THE  MONSTER 

pretty  reckoning.  I  recall  Theodore  Thomas, 
the  great  conductor,  and  his  concert-master, 
Max  Bendix,  as  frequent  visitors  at  Heim's. 
(Thomas  was  an  epicure;  Seidl  ate  what  was  set 
before  him,  but  craved  strong  black  Havanas.) 

At  the  Sinclair  House,  also  a  memory,  you 
ordered  "  angels  on  horseback  "  —  in  other  words, 
fish-cakes  with  poached  eggs  atop.  Its  tomato 
soup  was  capital.  The  old  Astor  House  had 
its  "specialties,"  as  had  Smith  &  McNeil's, 
now  vanished;  as  had  Lyons's,  on  the  Bowery  — 
they  gave  you  better  beefsteak  than  you  could 
get  in  a  restaurant  of  a  higher  class.  Oyster- 
patties  were  better  made,  and  raw  oysters  at 
ten  cents  a  dozen  (no  napkins)  seemed  celestial. 
And  the  hot-corn  Mammy,  with  her  turban 
and  far,  clear  cry  at  midnight  (in  Third  Avenue, 
too)  "Hot  corn!  Hot  corn!"  Cobweb  Hall  is 
still  in  existence,  though  I  believe  the  old  pro 
prietor  is  dead.  Even  the  salt  was  saltier,  and 
the  butter  more  buttery  than  the  sandy  substi 
tute  and  oleomargarine  in  contemporary  usage. 

What's  become  of  the  little  withered  Italian 
who  sold  matches  from  Fourteenth  to  Forty- 
second  Streets  every  night,  with  his  comical 
farewell:  "Gooda  nighta,  Boss"?  There  be 
men  still  living  and  in  full  possession  of  their 
strength  who  not  only  frequented  Andy  Horn's 
at  the  Bridge  (there  was  only  one  bridge  in 
those  remote  days),  and  also  "Doc"  Perry's 
drug  store,  there  to  absorb  editorial  culture  and 
"  reportorial"  quinine  (slightly  disguised).  Of 
86 


THE  MAW  OF  THE'  MONSTER 

course,  they  were  newspaper  men,  not  journal 
ists,  of  whom  the  late  "Joe"  Howard  always 
said:  "It's  the  money  of  newspaper  men  that 
pays  the  funeral  expenses  of  journalists." 

Ill 

The  Grand  Union  Hotel,  which  is  no  longer 
on  the  map  of  life,  was  for  years  my  pet  hostelry 
—  was  truly  a  landmark,  and  Simeon  Ford  and 
Samuel  Shaw  national  figures. 

The  "holy  of  holies"  in  my  time  was  Del- 
monico's.  To-day  it  has  a  hundred  rivals.  Nev 
ertheless  it  remains  Delmonico's,  the  unique. 
Sherry's  is  very  attractive  —  the  name  is  an 
aperitive  —  and  such  gorgeous  hostleries  as  the 
Gotham  and  the  St.  Regis  have  menus  to  match. 
But  being  a  democratic  person,  I  prefer  down 
town  Haan's,  Bustanoby's,  the  Brevoort,  or  the 
Lafayette  —  the  oldest  and  the  best  of  Martin's 
restaurants.  I  never  cared  for  his  Delmonico 
undertaking;  it  was  neither  good  Martin  nor 
real  Delmonico.  At  Shanley's  —  the  original 
Shanley's  was  on  Broadway  below  Thirtieth 
Street  —  Rector's,  Churchill's,  or  the  cafes  of 
the  Plaza,  Savoy,  Netherland,  Biltmore,  Vander- 
bilt,  or  Ritz  you  can  order  what  you  wish  and 
get  it.  I  find  little  change  in  the  Savoy  Cafe, 
and  I  am  still  fond  of  the  al  fresco  character  of 
down-town  Delmonico's,  in  Beaver  Street. 

On  that  street  there  are  two  or  three  Italian 
and  French  restaurants  —  "Frank's,"  for  in- 

87 


THE  MAW  OF  THE  MONSTER 

stance  —  which  for  wine,  cuisine,  and  service 
have  no  superior  up-town.  Then  there  is  An- 
gelo's  in  Pearl  Street,  and  Farrish's  chop-house 
in  John  Street.  When  James  Breslin  conducted 
the  Gilsey  House  it  was  a  hotel  of  the  first  mag 
nitude.  And  there  are  Billy  the  oysterman's, 
Pontin's  in  Franklin  Street,  and  other  resorts 
still  in  existence. 

As  for  eating  around  and  about  New  York, 
the  road-houses  are  legion  since  the  advent  of 
the  motor-car,  and  they  have  hurt  the  business 
of  the  New  York  restaurants.  Over  on  Long 
Island,  up  in  Connecticut,  down  on  Staten 
Island,  you  are  royally  fed  at  royal  prices. 
You  can  stop  in  Central  Park  at  the  Casino 
(Dorval)  or  at  McGown's  Pass  Tavern,  and 
then  make  a  dash  for  Claremont,  the  most 
picturesquely  situated  of  all  the  river  houses. 
There  is  the  Abbey,  or  Ben  Riley's  —  which 
evokes  the  old  Arrow-head  Inn,  Saratoga  Lake 
—  or  some  pleasant  French  cafes  on  both  sides 
of  the  Hudson.  The  old  Hudson  Inn  farther 
down  Fifth  Avenue  still  holds  the  fort  as  a  sol 
itary  survival.  But  when  in  pursuit  of  the 
Amber  Witch  out  of  town,  I  don't  waste  time 
at  any  of  the  beaches  —  where  they  torture 
beer  into  the  semblance  of  discoloured  ice-water 
—  nor  do  I  go  up  the  river,  but  simply  get  on 
the  Brighton  line,  dismount  at  Consumers'  Park, 
don't  even  look  at  the  ball  game  at  Ebbets  Field, 
and  march  into  Fred  Winter's  garden,  where 
the  herculean  proprietor  —  he  is  a  prize- winning 


THE  MAW  OF  THE  MONSTER 

athlete  —  holds  gentle  sway,  where  the  view  of 
either  Prospect  Park  or  the  Brooklyn  Institute 
consoles  the  eye,  and  where  —  but  why  con 
tinue?  The  crickets  are  booming  in  Flatbush, 
the  hunters  are  up  at  Sheepshead  Bay,  God's 
in  his  heaven  and  all's  well  with  Tammany. 
This  mixture  of  Walt  Whitman,  good  old  Sir 
Thomas  Browne,  Robert  Browning,  and  Plato 
(all  Tammany  braves  are  Platonists)  must  be 
set  down  to  the  heady  nature  of  my  discourse. 
But  the  greater  the  truth  the  greater  the  car 
icature. 

I  promised  as  a  sort  of  a  coda  to  tell  you  of 
the  absence  in  New  York  of  the  fried  oyster. 
Your  cockney-bred  New  Yorker  looks  askance 
at  you  if  you  mention  fried  oysters.  No  won 
der.  The  leaden,  lumpy,  greasy,  tasteless  wad 
of  flabby  batter  and  hard,  shrivelled  oyster  that 
masks  in  Manhattan  as  a  fried  oyster  is  enough 
to  revolt  the  maw  of  a  Patagonian. 

I  well  remember  Charles  Delmonico  telling 
me  years  ago,  and  with  a  gesture  of  despair, 
that  he  had  sent  a  chef  to  Finelli's  in  Philadel 
phia;  that  said  chef,  a  man  of  imagination  and 
technique,  ate  himself  bilious  at  Finelli's  trying 
to  solve  the  secret  of  the  magical  batter;  that 
he  returned  home  with  this  secret  —  olive-oil, 
the  pan  spluttering  red-hot,  and  the  oysters 
quickly  dropped  in  and  harpooned  at  once  — 
and  the  first  day  he  served  the  oysters  at  the 
Broadway  restaurant  he  lost  his  job.  He  had 
absolutely  failed. 

89 


THE  MAW  OF  THE  MONSTER 

But,  strange  to  relate,  in  Philadelphia  there 
were  others  besides  Finelli  who  knew  how  to 
serve  a  fried  oyster  so  that  it  tasted  like  a  cross 
between  a  poem  and  a  croquette.  Both  Phil 
adelphia  and  Baltimore  are  renowned  for  their 
terrapin,  red  snapper,  ducks,  pepper-pot,  deviled 
crabs,  lobsters,  and  oysters  —  better  oysters 
than  Cape  May  coves,  about  the  middle  of  Sep 
tember,  there  are  nowhere.  McGowan's,  in 
Sansom  Street  in  Philadelphia,  can  give  you 
the  best  of  terrapin  and  fried  oysters,  and  even 
in  Finelli's  time  there  was  a  certain  "Billy" 
Van  Hook,  who  was  celebrated  for  his  fried  oys 
ters  —  his  wife  really  cooked  them.  (Here  is  a 
potent  reason  why  woman  should  have  the  vote.) 
She  is  still  alive  at  her  restaurant  on  Library 
Street,  where  the  oysters  are  as  poetic  as  ever. 

But  New  York  never  imported  the  dish;  in 
fact,  I  don't  mind  confessing  that  in  the  matter 
of  sea  food  and  its  preparation  New  York  still 
lags  in  the  rear  of  Baltimore  and  Philadelphia. 

However,  on  this  rather  pessimistic  note  I 
shan't  end;  after  all,  sea  food  is  not  the  only 
reason  for  a  good  kitchen.  The  maw  of  New 
York  is  the  most  capacious  in  the  world,  and 
it  is  also  the  best-filled. 


90 


VI 

THE  NIGHT  HATH  A  THOUSAND 
EYES 


IN  New  York  "the  night  hath  a  thousand 
eyes."  That  is  why  all  cats  are  not  grey  by 
night.  The  Great  White  Way,  pleasure-ground 
of  the  world,  is  the  incandescent  oven  of  the 
metropolis,  and  under  its  fierce  glare  all  felines 
appear  alike.  But  grey,  never. 

The  sad-coloured  procession  that  slowly  moves 
through  Piccadilly,  the  merry  crush  of  the  Fried- 
richstrasse,  and  the  gayer  swirl  on  the  Grand 
Boulevard  are  not  so  cosmopolitan  as  Broad 
way  on  a  summer's  night.  Every  nationality 
swells  the  stream  of  petticoats;  "As  the  rill 
that  runs  from  Bulicame  to  be  portioned  out 
among  the  sinful  women,"  sang  Dante,  and  one 
exclaims :  Lo  !  this  is  the  city  of  Dis,  when  in  the 
maelstrom  of  faces;  faces  blanched  by  regret, 
sunned  by  crime,  beaming  with  sin ;  faces  rusted 
by  vain  virtue,  wan,  weary  faces,  and  the  tri 
umphant  regard  of  them  that  are  loved.  You 
think  of  Bill  Sykes  and  his  cry  of  terror:  "The 
eyes,  the  eyes ! " 


NIGHT  HATH  A  THOUSAND  EYES 

The  city  has  begun  its  nocturnal  carnival, 
and  like  all  organised  orgies  the  spectacle  is  of 
a  consuming  melancholy.  No  need  to  moralise; 
cause  and  effect  speak  with  an  appalling  clarity. 
Through  this  tohubohu  of  noise  a  sinister  med 
ley  of  farce  and  flame,  the  Will-to-Enjoy,  winds 
like  a  stream  of  red-hot  resistless  lava.  In  de 
scribing  it  your  pen  makes  melodramatic  twists 
or  else  hops  deliriously. 

The  day  birds  have  gone  to  bed,  the  night 
fowl  are  afield.  The  owl  is  a  denizen  of  the  dark 
and  Minerva's  counsel,  for  all  that  wisdom  is 
not  in  the  air.  Even  veritable  cats  as  they 
slink  or  race  across  the  highway  are  bathed  in 
the  blaze  of  a  New  York  night  with  its  thousands 
of  eyes.  No,  all  cats  are  not  grey  by  night  in 
Gotham. 

But  from  the  heights,  what  a  different  pic 
ture!  Then  the  magic  of  the  city  begins  to 
operate;  that  missing  soul  of  New  York  shyly 
peeps  forth  in  the  nocturnal  transfiguration. 
Not,  however,  in  Broadway,  with  its  thousand 
lies  and  lights,  not  in  opera-houses,  theatres, 
restaurants,  or  roof-gardens,  but  on  some  perch 
of  vantage  from  which  the  scene  in  all  its  mys 
terious  beauty  may  be  studied.  You  see  a 
cluster  of  lights  on  the  West  Side  Circle,  a  lad 
der  of  fire  the  pivot.  Farther  down,  theatreland 
dazzles  with  its  tongues  of  flame.  Across  in 
the  cool  shadows  are  the  level  lines  of  twinkling 
points  of  the  bridges.  There  is  always  the 
sense  of  waters  not  afar. 


NIGHT  HATH  A  THOUSAND   EYES 

All  the  hotels,  from  the  Majestic  to  the  Plaza, 
from  the  Biltmore  to  the  Vanderbilt,  are  tier 
upon  tier  starry  with  illumination.  Beyond  the 
coppery  gleam  of  the  great  erect  synagogue  in 
Fifth  Avenue  is  the  placid  toy  lake  in  the  park. 
Fifth  and  Madison  Avenues  are  long  shafts  of 
bluish-white  electric  globes.  The  monoliths 
burn  to  a  fire-god,  votive  offerings.  The  park, 
as  if  liquefied,  flows  in  plastic  rhythms,  a  lake 
of  velvety  foliage,  a  mezzotint  of  dark  green 
dividing  the  east  from  the  west.  The  dim, 
scattered  plains  of  granite  housetops  are  like  a 
cemetery  of  titans.  At  night  New  York  loses 
its  New  World  aspect.  Sudden  furnace  fires 
from  tall  chimneys  leap  from  the  Brooklyn  or 
New  Jersey  shores;  they  are  of  purely  commer 
cial  origin,  yet  you  look  for  Whistler's  rockets. 
Battery  Park  and  the  bay  are  positively  operatic, 
the  setting  for  some  thrilling  fairy  spectacle.  A 
lyric  moonlight  paves  a  path  of  tremulous  sil 
ver  along  the  water.  From  Morningside  Drive 
you  gaze  across  a  sunken  country  of  myriad 
lamps;  on  Riverside  the  panorama  exalts.  We 
are  in  a  city  exotic,  semibarbaric,  the  fantasy 
of  an  Eastern  sorcerer  mad  enough  to  evoke 
from  immemorial  seas  a  lost  Atlantis. 

Below  in  the  theatres  are  the  moving  pic 
tures,  those  tantalising  ocular  spasms,  or  op 
tical  shadow  for  dramatic  substance.  Let  us  go 
to  one  of  these  mute  entertainments  (barring  the 
clattering  orchestra),  and  to  the  best,  "  Cabiria," 
manufactured  by  a  man  of  genius,  Gabriele 

93 


NIGHT  HATH  A  THOUSAND   EYES 

d'Annunzio,  out  of  shreds  and  patches  and  frag 
ments  from  Flaubert's  "Salammbo,"  "The Last 
Days  of  Pompeii,"  "Samson  and  Delilah,"  and 
a  dozen  dime  novels;  a  monstrous  olla  podrida 
of  incidents,  a  jumble  of  movements,  all  without 
sense  or  relevance,  nevertheless  so  filled  with 
action  that  the  eye  is  rapt  by  the  sheer  velocity 
of  the  film.  No  story  can  ever  be  definitely  re 
lated,  for  the  essence  of  photography  is  the 
arrest  of  motion,  and  despite  the  ingenious  mim 
icry  of  movement,  there  is  no  narration,  only 
poses. 

The  very  faults  of  photography  are  exag 
gerated;  the  figures  in  the  foreground  are  giant 
like,  in  the  middle  distance  or  distant  perspec 
tive  they  are  those  of  pygmies,  so  that  in  a  room 
a  woman's  figure  at  the  edge  of  the  picture  sug 
gests  a  giantess,  while  her  maid,  supposed  to 
be  a  few  feet  away,  is  a  miniature.  And  then 
the  wavering,  swimming,  flickering  of  sharp 
points  of  light  —  the  eye  is  more  fatigued  than 
at  a  dramatic  performance.  Why  music  if  the 
films  suffice?  The  truth  is  that  the  moving 
pictures  are  a  remarkable  mechanical  device, 
but  never  for  a  .moment  can  be  considered  in 
the  category  of  art. 

Those  mountains  belching  sparks  and  fire  are 
sensational,  but  not  artistic  pictures;  panto 
mimes  with  tableaux  is  a  better  description. 
One  scene  had  an  element  of  vraisemblance; 
it  depicted  a  sweeping  foreground,  such  as 
Daubigny  was  fond  of  in  his  rare,  larger  can- 

94 


NIGHT  HATH  A  THOUSAND   EYES 

vases;  a  troop  of  savage  horsemen  appear  on 
the  ridge  of  the  hill,  silhouettes  in  strong  relief 
against  a  clear  sky.  If  these  figures  hadn't 
cavorted  down  the  slope,  the  picture  would 
have  been  an  impressive  one,  but  the  move 
ment,  paradoxical  as  it  may  seem,  killed  the 
illusion. 

Great  art  can  suggest  the  rhythm  of  mul 
titude  on  a  flat  surface,  but  the  public,  like 
Mr.  Crummies,  demands  its  real  pump.  The 
swimming  episode  with  the  splashing  water  is 
"  real "  enough,  but  there  is  no  art  in  it.  I  mean 
no  illusion.  Those  Salammbo  tableaux  in  tem 
ples,  particularly  the  scaling  of  the  citadel  — 
Spendius,  you  may  remember  in  Flaubert's  im 
mortal  romance,  got  into  Carthage  with  the 
barbarian  chief  Matho  by  way  of  the  aqueducts 
-  are  duly  exciting;  but  one  phase  of  Flaubert 
and  the  picture  lives,  isn't  a  shaky  simulacrum. 

When  it  was  all  over,  when  the  last  strident 
blast  of  the  brass,  the  last  howl  of  the  chorus,  and 
and  the  last  absurd  printed  "plot"  on  the  cur 
tain  had  ceased,  I  felt  as  if  I  had  been  at  a  ban 
quet  where  the  food  and  drink  were  whisked  off 
the  table  before  I  could  touch  them. 

Of  what  mental  and  emotional  calibre  are 
the  audiences  that  frequent  such  shows?  The 
world  has  been  seized  by  a  craze  for  them. 
They  demand  the  minimum  of  thought  from 
their  spectators  —  who,  incidentally,  chew  gum 
—  and  give  to  the  eye  the  maximum  of  sensa 
tion.  The  attitude  is  purely  receptive.  You 

95 


NIGHT  HATH  A  THOUSAND   EYES 

watch  untouched  by  emotion  the  most  "thrill 
ing"  spectacles  and  hairbreadth  escapes.  Any 
thing  like  simplicity  is  a  bore. 

I've  tried  to  sit  through  so-called  plays;  I've 
heard  certain  film  actors  and  actresses  —  God 
save  the  mark!  —  called  " great,"  and  their 
gestures  gave  me  the  same  impression  one  gets 
before  a  cageful  of  monkeys.  Only  the  mon 
keys  are  more  amusing. 

This  shadowland  is  never  dramatic,  never 
poetically  suggestive,  never  human.  The  ab 
sence  of  the  human  voice,  a  marvellous  instru 
ment  that  bridges  the  space  between  us  and  our 
neighbour,  is  depressing,  as  depressing  as  the 
enforced  silence  in  a  hospital  ward.  The  sub 
stitute,  usually  vulgar,  noisy  music,  is  an  im 
pertinence.  A  diversion  for  children,  an  aid  to 
science,  an  entertainment  for  deaf-mutes,  but 
not  an  art  for  intelligent  people. 

What  has  become  of  our  taste  these  latter 
years?  "Canned"  music,  mechanical  pianos, 
moving  pictures,  dancing,  these  be  thy  gods, 
Philistia ! 

I  suppose  the  time  predicted  by  H.  G.  Wells 
is  at  hand,  a  time  when  reading  shall  have  van 
ished,  and  with  it  the  other  arts;  huge  gramo 
phones  will  furnish  the  public  its  news  and 
bring  to  the  parlour  the  muse  of  the  mud  gutter 
—  and  literature  —  and  the  moving  pictures 
will  be  so  extraordinary  that  all  the  world  will 
be  a  film.  Truly,  a  millennium  of  vulgarity  and 
intellectual  darkness,  the  glorious  results  of  uni- 
96 


NIGHT  HATH  A  THOUSAND   EYES 

versal  education !  The  second  coming  of  the 
Huns  and  Tartars  of  ignorance  is  overwhelm 
ing  us. 

n 

Years  ago  I  wrote  a  story  of  a  musical  com 
poser  whose  advent  sets  singing  and  dancing 
the  entire  world,  so  potent  is  the  appeal  of  his 
rhythmic  and  magical  art.  In  Italy  his  progress 
was  that  of  a  trailing  comet.  The  feminine 
madness  first  manifested  itself  there  and  swept 
the  countryside  with  epidemical  fury.  Wher 
ever  he  played  the  dancing  mania  set  in  and  the 
soldiery  could  not  put  it  down  by  force  of  arms. 

Nietzsche's  dancing  philosopher,  Zarathustra, 
was  incarnated  in  Illowski's  compositions.  Like 
the  nervous  obsessions  of  mediaeval  times,  this 
music  set  howling,  leaping,  and  writhing  volatile 
Italians,  until  it  began  to  assume  the  propor 
tions  of  a  new  evangel,  a  hysterical  hallucina 
tion  that  bade  defiance  to  law,  doctors,  even  the 
decencies  of  life. 

For  women  his  music  was  the  moth's  desire. 
Wherever  he  went  were  women  —  women  and 
children.  Old  legends  of  the  ancient  gods  were 
revived.  The  great  god  Pan  was  said  to  be 
abroad.  Rustling  in  the  night  air  set  blushing 
young  folk.  Like  a  torrid  simoon,  an  emotional 
renascence  traversed  Europe.  The  fountains  of 
the  great  deeps  of  democracy  were  breaking  up. 
Music  was  become  ruler  and  the  world  and  his 
wife  danced  on  the  pinions  of  song.  Likewise 

97 


NIGHT  HATH  A  THOUSAND  EYES 

on  their  heads  and  heels.  The  very  earth  was 
shaken  at  its  axis.  The  dance  was  triumphant. 

Well,  some  such  fantastical  nonsense  I  wrote, 
but  after  I  laid  down  Rupert  Hughes's  brilliant 
book,  What  Will  People  Say  ?  I  realised  the  seri 
ousness  of  the  present  situation.  But  Tango, 
instead  of  my  Russian  composer,  Illowski,  is 
king. 

I  determined  to  investigate.  I  haunted  roof- 
gardens  (so-called,  though  some  of  them  are 
subterranean),  I  jostled  the  common  people,  my 
own  kind,  in  nickel  dance  pavilions;  on  glassy 
floors  I  saw  with  wide-open  eyes  couples  ill- 
assorted  but  whirling,  and  amid  tropical  shrub 
bery  on  sultry  nights  I  sweated  for  my  sins,  that 
I  might  satisfy  the  meanest  of  all  venial  vices, 
curiosity. 

I  became  a  regular  Paul  Pry.  I  edged  my 
way  through  panting  humans  to  catch  some 
gleam  in  their  fever-sunken  eyes  which  would 
betray  the  psychology  of  their  obsession.  I  went 
to  palm  gardens  and  cabarets,  I  saw  people  lift 
ing  their  legs  at  ice-cream  dancing  "parlours"; 
Sunday-school  dancing  did  not  scandalise  me, 
for  I  remembered  that  David  danced  before  the 
ark  (or  was  it  Noah?  I  know  that  Noah,  too, 
had  his  ark) ;  and  at  a  church  picnic  the  dominie 
danced,  and  there  were  film  pictures. 

At  the  Astor,   the  Vanderbilt,   atop  of  the 

Strand,  in  the  Biltmore,  at  the  Jardin  de  Danse, 

the  McAlpin,  the  New  Amsterdam,  at  the  Ritz, 

at  Rector's,  on  Madison  Square  Tower,  at  a 

98 


NIGHT  HATH  A  THOUSAND   EYES 

half-hundred  other  places  I  sought  and  did  not 
find.  The  novel  I  mention  had  inflamed  my 
imagination  as  the  dancing  had  evidently  in 
flamed  the  imagination  of  its  author.  But  Mr. 
Hughes  was  luckier  than  I. 

This  is  what  I  saw  everywhere  —  a  composite 
picture.  Let  .me  select  the  Biltmore,  whose 
floor  next  to  the  roof,  with  its  approaches,  de 
serves  the  appellation  palatial.  A  vast  dinner 
salle,  an  oblong  dancing  floor,  the  general  scheme 
of  decoration  a  muddle  of  Japanese  and  various 
discordant  elements,  a  high  estrade  in  which  a 
weary  orchestra  always  played  in  one  tonality, 
the  placid  key  of  F;  towering  above  was  a  tall 
statue  of  Neptune,  hence  the  title  of  the  floor, 
"Les  Cascades."  Why  Neptune  and  his  trident 
(he  looked  like  Bernard  Shaw  fresh  from  the 
bath)  in  a  dancing  salon  I  can't  say. 

A  water-god,  his  presence  had  a  decidedly 
temperate  effect  —  I  saw  little  if  any  drinking. 
The  Herr  Oberkellner  seemed  shocked  when  I 
asked  for  plain  hops.  I  argued  with  him  that 
in  the  entire  room  there  wasn't  any  one  drink 
ing  champagne. 

"Ah,  non ! "  he  replied,  " the  war,  you  know ! " 
"It's  Neptune,  you  mean,"  I  retorted.  Then 
the  band  began  to  play,  and  in  the  tepid  key 
of  F  I  forgot  the  beverage,  my  eyes  agog. 

Ah !  where  was  the  orgastic  fury,  where  the 
exotic  abandon  of  these  dancers?  No  spoor  of 
delirium,  and  absolutely  nothing  bacchanalian. 
Intoxicated  by  the  ice-water  that  they  so  reck- 

99 


NIGHT  HATH  A  THOUSAND  EYES 

lessly  absorbed,  I  saw  middle-aged,  bald  business 
men  with  their  mature  partners  (their  wives,  of 
course;  your  "Go  up,  thou  baldhead!"  doesn't 
dance  with  maturity  unless  it  is  a  matrimonial 
obligation),  slide  and  slip  and  twist  and  twirl  in 
such  a  decorous  fashion  that  I  shuddered. 

I  remember  that  when  I  arrived  in  Paris  for 
the  first  time  —  it  was  October,  1878  —  the 
Jardin  Mabille  did  not  close  its  doors  till  later. 
I  have  participated  in  the  Bal  Bullier  on  the 
"other  side  of  the  river,"  and  I  knew  Mont- 
martre  when  it  was  Montmartre  and  not  a  Pari 
sian  Chautauqua.  I've  seen  all  the  cancans 
worth  mentioning  —  rather,  unmentionable  — 
and  while  I  did  not  expect  in  our  staid  Quakerish 
old  New  York  any  such  license,  I  did  yearn  for 
a  little  more  animation.  Why,  it  was  a  Brook 
lyn  sociable  on  a  larger  scale  ! 

Occasionally  a  little  pot-bellied  fellow  tried 
to  clutch  his  massive  partner,  but  in  vain.  It 
was  a  living  picture  of  the  old  woodcut  by 
Rowlandson,  "Thou  art  so  near  and  yet  so 
far,"  in  sober  terms.  The  portentous  gravity 
of  the  entire  function  impressed  me.  Perhaps 
these  very  middle-class-appearing  persons  were 
overcome  by  the  magnificence  of  their  surround 
ings;  perhaps  the  jarring  decoration  oppressed 
them,  or  it  may  have  been  the  Turkish-bath 
atmosphere.  I  was  afraid  to  ask  the  head 
waiter,  for  I  saw  that  I  was  under  the  ban. 
The  key  of  F,  damnable  iteration,  struck  up  a 
valse  rhythm,  and  then  the  dancers,  one  and  all, 
100 


NIGHT  HATH  A  THOUSAND  EYES 

essayed  a  two-step.  The  cross  rhythms,  so 
piquant  in  Chopin's  A  flat  valse,  were  translated 
from  the  psychical  to  the  physical  plane,  and 
fearing  for  my  morals  I  sneaked  away,  won 
dering  if  there  were  such  dances  as  the  Tango, 
Maxixe,  or  Gummy  Grip,  the  Lame  Duck,  Fox 
Trot,  or  Honey  Bug  —  perhaps  I  should  say, 
Bunny  Hug.  After  paying  my  bill  at  the  hat- 
check  department  I  found  I  had  just  enough 
money  left  to  go  home,  and  home  I  went.  I  had 
eaten  my  peck  of  dirt  that  day,  and  I  should 
have  been  satisfied.  But  I  was  not. 

The  next  night  found  me  on  the  roof  of  the 
New  Amsterdam,  said  to  be  the  true  home  of 
twinkling  heels.  Also  the  spot  favoured  by  the 
Mayor  and  his  official  family;  ours  is  a  dancing 
administration.  Anything  Ziegfeldian  ought  to 
be  edifying,  and  I  found  myself  between  two 
musical  fires  —  an  orchestra  of  coloured  men  and 
a  band  of  Spanish-looking  gents  who  plucked 
guitars,  or  balalaikas,  and  made  music  of  a  more 
exotic  but  less  rhythmic  character  than  their 
dark-skinned  rivals. 

These  rival  organisations  hammered  away  at 
one  another,  and  there  was  some  zest  in  their 
performance.  The  dancers,  too,  displayed  fire. 
But  the  men,  the  men,  why  will  they  dance? 
Good  and  bad,  they  all  look  so  stupid  in  their 
dinner  jackets  (a  costume  devised  for  waiters), 
their  legs  like  stovepipes,  their  thick-soled  shoes 
clumping  about.  Even  if  a  woman  is  clumsy, 
her  drapery  attenuates  her  lack  of  grace.  In 
101 


NIGHT  HATH  A  THOUSAND  EYES 

costume  a  man  is  barely  endurable  as  a  dancer 

—  say  in  the  opera  or  Russian  ballet  —  but  in 
our  ugly  daily  dress  he  is  simply  absurd. 

There  were  several  young  chaps  who  danced 
lightly  enough,  but  grace  they  knew  not.  The 
girls  made  a  more  pleasing  impression.  They 
exhibited  all  the  new  steps,  most  of  them  idiotic 
in  their  simian  distortion  of  natural  rhythms, 
and  they  gyrated  with  a  certain  degree  of  reck 
lessness.  But  at  Steeplechase  the  dancing  is 
heartier,  more  clever,  and  at  any  negro  ball  the 
coloured  lassies  outpoint  their  white  sisters  in 
elasticity,  in  swaying  rhythms,  and  diabolic 
abandon.  Compared  with  the  dancing  I  saw 
at  Madrid  and  Seville  of  Spanish  gipsies,  some 
times  on  table  tops,  all  that  I've  witnessed  thus 
far  in  New  York  is  tame  and  so  respectable. 

Did  you  ever  watch  a  Polish  woman  dance 
the  Mazourka?  Or  a  Hungarian  the  Czardas 

—  I  don't  mean  the  mock-turtle  paprika  of  our 
dance  palaces?    These  so-called  "fashionable" 
fakers  who  wriggle  to  the  admiration  of  a  heavy- 
footed  crowd  are  caricatures.     The  dance  is  not 
in  their  nerves,  it's  in  their  pocketbooks.     I 
understand  the  success  of  the  moving  pictures 

—  it's  a  lot  of  gaudy  nonsense  for  little  money, 
but  the  meaning  of  the  dancing  mania  has  taken 
me  much  time  to  solve.    An  excellent  custom 
for  young  and  old  it  is,  a  foe  to  the  use  of  med 
icine,  and  generally  provocative  to  the  appetite, 
yet  the  search  for  health  does  not  account  for 
its  popularity. 

102 


NIGHT  HATH  A  THOUSAND  EYES 

My  notion  is  this,  and  I  may  be  mistaken: 
In  the  dance  the  world,  instead  of  playing  spec 
tator,  is  itself  the  chief  actor  in  the  pageant. 
On  this  popular  stage  every  one  may  star.  They 
can  have  all  the  pleasures  of  professional  artistic 
life  without  its  penalties.  The  ego  has  found 
its  own  (shade  of  Max  Stirner  !)  —  and  theatres, 
moving  pictures,  even  motor-cars,  must  bow  low 
to  the  victorious  dancing  dervishes.  I  am  look 
ing  forward  to  the  aeroplane  as  the  next  avatar 
of  pleasure.  Till  then  America  will  be  satisfied 
with  perfectly  proper  dancing  capers,  films,  and 
chewing-gum.  However,  we  outlived  the  roller- 
skating  and  the  rinks  thirty-five  years  ago;  so 
let  us  not  despair.  But  the  incredible  abuse  that 
was  lavished  upon  poor,  respectable  Salome  of 
Strauss  and  Wilde  is,  like  the  proverbial  curse, 
coming  home  to  roost — more's  the  pity. 

Ill 

The  room  is  long  and  narrow,  its  walls  mir 
rored;  the  ceiling  is  too  low  for  the  good  of  the 
lungs,  because  every  one  was  smoking  the  night 
I  went  in  after  leaving  the  Strand.  It  was  too 
early  for  "Jack's,"  too  late  for  the  vaudeville 
at  Hammerstein's  Victoria,  so  I  thought  of  the 
Canary  Cage,  the  most  popular  of  resorts  given 
over  to  Bohemians  and  other  rainbows.  Half- 
cabaret  —  where  the  solo  performers  are  the 
guests  —  half  bird  bathtub,  where  the  wines  do 
not  prompt  to  a  fall,  the  Cage  is  the  most  engag 
ing  of  all  the  nightly  spectacles  in  Gotham. 
103 


NIGHT  HATH  A  THOUSAND   EYES 

Naturally  for  the  "highbrow,"  the  "low 
brow,"  or  "bonehead"  is  not  made  free  of  this 
republic  of  arts,  letters,  and  canaries;  I  did  not 
arrive  too  soon.  The  band  up-stairs  was  play 
ing  at  its  top  notch,  the  diners  had  descended 
to  the  ground  floor,  and  the  windmills  were 
agitating  their  arms  and  theories  in  every  corner. 

There  sat  the  professor  who  nightly  demon 
strates  how  the  Japanese  could  have  captured 
Berlin  in  three  moves:  move  one,  with  the  salt 
cellar;  move  two,  with  a  teaspoon;  the  third, 
with  the  fork;  positively,  the  table  is  worn  with 
ruts  because  of  this  continuous  war  strategy. 
When  he  isn't  warring,  the  professor  whispers 
to  you  —  confidentially,  of  course  —  about  the 
young  genius  he  has  discovered,  a  painter  who 
can  give  points  to  Cezanne.  But  at  bottom, 
he  is  conservative.  He  never  favoured  the 
"extreme  left"  of  crazy  cubists  and  concubin- 
ism,  expressivists,  zonists,  futurists,  vorticists, 
and  post-impressionists  who  make  their  drinks 
warm  with  their  oaths  and  rantings.  Indeed,  he 
shivered  every  time  a  shriek  of  "Nietzsche"  or 
"  Marinetti "  came  from  across  the  room.  There 
sat  the  choice  cenacle  at  a  long  table,  putting 
away  everything  from  absinthe  to  zoolak.  (I 
am  sorry  to  state  that  the  man  who  drank  the 
latter  was  a  nuisance.) 

A  Matisse-versus-Picasso  controversy  was  in 
full  sway  when  I  joined  the  party  —  not  with 
out  audible  dissent  from  some  boys  who  called 
me  "that  antiquated  bric-a-brac  who  thinks 
104 


NIGHT  HATH  A  THOUSAND  EYES 

Chopin  wrote  music."  I  knew  these  admirers 
of  Arnold  Schoenberg,  and  I  knew  that  they  had 
never  heard  a  note  of  the  Vienna  composer,  and 
when  they  did  they  wouldn't  be  able  to  dis 
tinguish  it  from  Yankee  Doodle. 

But  the  name  !  Ha !  a  musical  iconoclast ! 
Down  with  the  old  fogies  !  Down  with  Richard 
Strauss,  the  reactionary !  They  smashed  repu 
tations.  They  sneered  at  the  major  gods,  also 
the  minor.  One  person  (he  wasn't  over  twenty), 
attacked  Walt  Whitman  as  the  type  of  the  per 
fect  classicist,  and  after  the  noise  of  broken 
glass  had  ceased  and  the  head  waiter  had  sep 
arated  the  combatants,  the  table  was  cleared 
of  broken  bottles,  and  the  argument  began 
anew.  A  genius  trumpeted  like  an  elephant, 
and  the  cock-crowing  evoked  memories  of  the 
Latin  Quarter. 

I  was  captivated.  My  youth  was  renewed  by 
the  battle,  the  sound  of  cannon,  and  the  neigh 
ing  of  the  steeds;  I,  too,  said  "Ha !  ha !"  to  the 
mules  —  at  least  they  were  as  stubborn  —  but 
I  was  ruled  out.  No  nineteenth  century,  back- 
number  aesthetics !  Give  us  futurism  or  give 
us  oblivion;  and  they  sought  the  latter  at  the 
very  spigot. 

I  was  not  disconcerted.  It  was  only  natural 
for  the  younger  generation  to  kick  in  the  panels 
of  the  door.  Grandfathers  and  other  antiquated 
relatives  should  submit  to  curfew.  And  the 
tolling  of  young  bells  is  the  tolling  of  their  knell. 
So  I  listened,  remembering  it  did  not  seem  so 

105 


NIGHT  HATH  A  THOUSAND  EYES 

many  years  ago  that  I  had  helped  in  the  same 
sacred  cause  of  "knock  your  neighbours  while 
you  live;  else  get  knocked."  How  this  gang  of 
painters,  sculptors,  poets,  etchers,  philosophers, 
writers,  and  pudding-heads  did  hit  every  head 
that  moved  on  the  contemporary  map  of  litera 
ture  or  art ! 

In  my  time  critics  quarrelled  over  the  emo 
tional  quality  and  technical  merits  of  poets.  I 
discovered  that  to-day  in  America  a  poet  is  a 
joke.  Let  us  wrangle  over  the  rights  of  inter 
esting  criminals,  the  ethics  of  sewer-pipes,  or 
the  sentimental  social  rehabilitation  of  moral 
lame  ducks  (not  drakes) ;  but  poetry  —  fudge  ! 
Marinetti  writes  poetry.  (So  does  a  telegraph 
operator.)  The  leader,  who  is  a  prose  rhapso- 
dist  doubled  by  a  vaudevillist,  challenged  me 
to  duel,  the  weapons  to  be  Velasquez  and 
Matisse.  I  selected  Bach,  and  the  matter  was 
dropped.  An  Irishman  always  knows  the  trick 
of  splitting  the  difference,  and  I  think  Johann 
Sebastian  Bach  a  greater  painter  than  either  the 
Spaniard  or  the  Frenchman  in  dispute. 

A  Scandinavian  made  us  roar  at  the  yarn,  a 
new  one,  about  the  son  of  Bjornstjerne  Bjornson, 
the  Norwegian  poet,  who  had  intruded  himself 
uninvited  on  the  bridge  of  an  ocean  steamship. 
When  politely  asked  by  the  captain  to  go  to  the 
lower  deck  he  haughtily  responded:  "Do  you 
know  to  whom  you  are  speaking?  Do  you 
know  you  are  addressing  the  son  of  Norway's 
greatest  poet?" 

106 


NIGHT  HATH  A  THOUSAND  EYES 

"No  matter,"  replied  the  captain  softly. 
"You  must  leave  the  bridge,  Mr.  Ibsen."  The 
poor  man  must  have  fallen  overboard  at  the  icy 
irony  of  the  answer. 

A  minute  later  a  fresh  conflict  was  in  progress. 
Some  one  cried:  "Ibsen!  Oh,  the  Land  of  the 
Midnight  Whiskers !  Why  not  drag  in  some 
other  mouldy  dramatist,  like  Moliere  or  Shake 
speare?" 

"Or  Bernard  Shaw?"  came  in  a  flash,  and  the 
air  was  thick  with  war-cries.  "Nietzsche!" 
"Schoenberg!"  "Wedekind!"  "Marinetti!" 
"Matisse!"  "Picasso!"  "George  Luks  can 
smash  the  slats  of  the  whole  crowd  for  pure 
paint."  The  professor  shook  both  fists  at  the 
ceiling,  groaning  with  Celtic  emphasis:  "Ah! 
Les  rates."  The  band  which  had  come  down 
stairs,  intoned  the  Marseillaise,  and  the  house 
vibrated  with  the  refrain,  "Marchons;  march- 
ons!"  "This  is  not  a  'Canary  Cage,'"  I  rumi 
nated,  "but  a  cage  of  young  eagles.  The  name 
of  the  place  should  be  changed  to  the  '  Cafe  of 
To-Morrow.'"  Here  the  sun  never  sets,  but 
always  rises,  though  it  never  seems  to  attain 
the  meridian  —  possibly  because  these  brilliant 
midnight  sons  go  to  bed  every  day  before  noon. 

I  made  my  retreat  from  this  covert  of  van 
dals  behind  the  cloud  of  a  thunderous  chorus, 
in  which  verbal  splinters  floated:  "Mari 
netti!"  "Encore  de  biere!"  "Matisse!"  "Im 
becile!"  "Schoenberg!"  "Hund!"  "Nietzsche!" 
"Let's  all  go  up  to  Jack's !" 
107 


NIGHT  HATH  A  THOUSAND  EYES 

I  quickly  melted  in  the  mist  as  the  band 
moved  up  the  avenue,  chanting  and  praying. 

From  his  attic  of  dreams,  from  his  tower  of 
ivory  and  spleen,  the  morose  impressionist  saw 
unrolling  beneath  him  a  double  lane  of  light, 
tall  poles,  bearing  twy-electric  lamps,  either  side 
of  nocturnal  Madison  Avenue,  throwing  patches 
of  metallic  blue  upon  the  glistening  damp  pave 
—  veritable  fragments  of  shivering  luminosity; 
saw  the  interminable  stretch  of  humid  asphalt 
stippled  by  rare  notes  of  dull  crimson;  exi 
gent  lanterns  of  some  fat  citizen  contractor. 
Occasional  trolley-cars,  projecting  vivid  shafts 
of  canary  colour  into  the  mist,  traversed  with 
vertiginous  speed  and  hollow  thunder  the 
dreary  roadway.  It  was  now  midnight.  On 
the  street  were  buttresses  of  granite;  at  un- 
ryhthmic  intervals  gloomy  apartment-houses 
reared  to  the  clouds  their  oblong  ugliness,  at 
tracting  by  their  magnetism  the  vagrom  winds 
which  tease,  agitate,  and  buffet  unfortunate 
ones  afoot  in  this  melancholy  canon  of  marble, 
steam,  and  steel.  A  huge,  belated,  bug-like  mo 
tor-car,  its  antennae  vibrating  with  fire,  slipped 
tremulously  through  the  casual  pools  of  shad 
owed  cross-lights;  swam  and  hummed  so  softly 
that  it  might  have  been  mistaken  for  a  novel, 
timorous,  amphibian  monster,  neither  boat  nor 
machine.  To  the  faded  nerves  of  the  fantastic 
impressionist  aloft  in  his  ineluctable  cage  this 
undulating  blur  of  blue  and  grey  and  frosty 
108 


NIGHT  HATH  A  THOUSAND  EYES 

white,  these  ebon  silhouettes  of  hushed  brassy 
palaces,  and  the  shimmering  wet  night  did  but 
evoke  the  exasperating  tableau  of  a  petrified 
Venice.  Venice  overtaken  by  a  drought  eternal ; 
an  aerial  Venice  with  cliff-dwellers  in  lieu  of 
harmonious  gondoliers;  a  Venice  of  tarnished 
twilights,  in  which  canals  were  transposed  to 
the  key  of  stone;  across  which  trailed  and 
dripped  superficial  rain  from  dusk  and  impla 
cable  skies;  rain  upright  and  scowling.  And 
the  soul  of  the  poet  ironically  posed  its  own 
acid  pessimism  in  the  presence  of  this  salty, 
chill,  and  cruel  city  —  a  Venice  of  receded  seas, 
a  spun-iron  Venice,  sans  hope,  sans  faith,  sans 
vision. 


109 


VII 

BRAIN  AND   SOUL  AND 
POCKETBOOK 


THERE  is  no  escaping  the  spirit  of  pragma 
tism  which  circulates  about  Columbia  Univer 
sity.  It  is  in  the  air,  and  you  encounter  it  as 
soon  as  you  reach  Broadway  at  the  One  Hundred 
and  Sixteenth  Street  Subway. 

Here,  you  say  to  yourself,  is  the  very  cortex 
of  the  city;  it  represents  its  intellectual  ideals, 
and  with  the  unfailing  mimicry  of  nature,  it 
seems  to  be  what  it  represents  —  I  mean  its 
simulacrum  gives  one  the  impression  of  a  very 
busy  centre  of  study :  above  all  a  practical  one. 

No  mooning  on  these  sunlit  heights  as  you 
would  at  Harvard  or  Oxford.  The  sternly  prag- 
~matic  ideal  of  New  York  is  reflected  in  its  chief 
seat  of  learning.  The  wooded  walks  and  soli 
tude-haunted  spots  of  certain  European  uni 
versities  have  no  counterparts  here.  Even  the 
George  Grey  Barnard  statue  Pan  looks  askance 
at  his  own  pagan  nudity.  Business  first,  dream 
ing  afterward  —  if  at  all  —  might  be  the  motto 
blazoned  at  Columbia. 

The  bustle  even  during  the  summer  session 
no 


BRAIN  AND  SOUL  AND  POCKETBOOK 

is  highly  gratifying.  Groups  of  young  women 
may  be  seen  going  into  commons  or  standing  at 
the  hall  of  philosophy.  The  hard,  unromantic 
aspect  of  the  various  buildings  —  magnificent, 
some  of  them  —  coupled  with  the  encroachment 
of  the  town,  robs  our  university  of  all  provincial 
colour;  not  even  the  green  campus,  where  they 
play  everything  from  Maeterlinck  to  croquet, 
disturbs  the  hard,  self-assured  picture  of  scho 
lastic  success. 

One  need  not  fear  that  at  Columbia  any  use 
less  art  will  be  found  encumbering  the  curricu 
lum.  The  aesthetic  note  is  absent,  but  it  is 
more  than  compensated  by  the 'presence  of  the 
cheerful  pragmatic  or  the  powerful  material 
istic.  And  yet  —  and  yet  I  think  that  huge 
doses  of  Ralph  Waldo  Emerson  should  be  daily 
administered  to  offset  the  deadening  of  lofty 
ideals;  above  all,  to  stifle  the  pernicious  belief 
in  majorities,  in  quantity  instead  of  quality, 
in  the  mob  in  place  of  the  man.  There  are  no 
types;  there  is  only  the  individual.  But  what 
is  pragmatism  to  one  man,  to  another  may  be 
poison. 

I  could  wish  for  more  aesthetic  "atmosphere" 
about  Alma  Mater.  The  equipment  is  of  an  em 
inent  order.  I  don't  know  how  many  students 
are  annually  turned  out  bright  and  shining  and 
bursting  with  knowledge  upon  the  community, 
but  the  number  must  be  great.  That  they 
make  "culture  hum"  may  be  rated  in  the  high 
standard  of  our  theatres  and  literature, 
in 


BRAIN  AND   SOUL  AND  POCKETBOOK 

And  the  teachers  —  how  many  there  must 
be! — none  with  "dandruff  on  their  coat  collars," 
for  they  are  all  paid  huge  salaries  and  can  af 
ford  such  luxuries  as  clothes-brushes  and  trips 
to  Europe.  I  saw  some  of  them  lounging  on 
the  grass  in  dignified  attitudes,  some  who  earn 
as  much  as  poor  bank  presidents  slaving  below 
in  the  heart  of  the  city. 

They  impressed  me.  Little  wonder  New 
York  is  the  very  hub  of  the  universe  in  the  mat 
ter  of  culture.  Columbia  is  a  vast  asset  in  the 
intellectual  life  of  the  city.  To  be  sure,  we 
never  hear  of  any  extraordinary  idea,  book,  or 
work  of  art  emanating  from  its  cloistered  shades, 
but  only  consider  the  amount  of  bright  young 
wits  it  unleashes  to  do  business  in  "our  midst." 

Pragmatic !  Why  shouldn't  it  be  pragmatic  ? 
Business  men,  not  poets  or  symmetrical  char 
acters,  is  the  modern  need,  and  this  university 
is  prime  in  its  manufactory  of  practical  youth. 

For  the  girls  I  can't  say  as  much.  Barnard 
has  its  statistics.  The  specimens  I  saw  were  ad 
mirably  ambitious,  plain,  and  preoccupied  with 
their  studies. 

You  don't  saunter  at  Columbia;  there  is  too 
much  intellectual  ozone  in  the  air,  even  on  hot 
days.  The  spick-and-span  condition  of  the  col 
leges  and  their  approaches  finally  gets  on  your 
nerves  and  you  escape  either  to  Morningside 
Drive  or  over  to  Claremont. 

In  and  around  Morningside  may  be  the  com 
ing  new  "Fifth  Avenue."  The  old  can't  long 
112 


BRAIN  AND   SOUL  AND   POCKETBOOK 

resist  the  attacks  of  the  commercial  philistines. 
Why  shouldn't  this  part  of  the  town  be  the 
home  of  our  "aristocracy"?  There  is  space, 
commanding  views,  the  air  is  pure,  and  there  is 
the  absence  of  the  crowd.  Spaciousness  is  the 
key-note. 

From  the  top  terrace  of  Morningside  Park  the 
scene  is  fascinating  —  a  tremendous  city  lies 
spread  below  you.  Its  chief  quality  is  its  va 
riety  (and  gas  reservoirs).  Now,  from  River 
side  Drive  the  landscape  is  monistic  —  if  I  dare 
employ  such  a  term;  from  Morningside  it  is 
pluralistic.  The  perspective  of  Broadway  — 
up  here  of  stately  width  —  with  the  Subway 
cars  emerging  into  the  sunlight  is  very  attrac 
tive.  You  have  the  feeling  that  another  New 
York  could  be  housed  on  these  heights;  and 
will  be  —  the  march  upward  is  unmistakable. 

I  crossed  through  One  Hundred  and  Twenty- 
second  Street  and  reached  the  Drive,  near 
Grant's  Tomb.  At  Claremont  I  again  saw  the 
tomb  of  the  "amiable  child"  and  again  nearly 
wept  at  the  thought  of  this,  the  last  amiable 
child,  dying  too  soon.  Since  then  he  has  had 
no  successors  in  our  city. 

I  always  admire  the  far-away  Tudor-like  tow 
ers  of  the  College  of  the  City  of  New  York,  dark 
field  stone  and  white  terra-cotta,  and  under 
their  shadow  there  are  pleasant  walks.  The 
unfinished  Cathedral  of  St.  John  the  Divine  is 
imposing  at  a  distance,  and  Fordham  College 
is  attractive  because  of  its  leafy  surroundings. 

"3 


BRAIN  AND   SOUL  AND   POCKETBOOK 

As  for  the  New  York  University,  thereby 
hangs  a  tale.  I  had  seen  the  Hall  of  Fame  from 
the  Harlem  River  and  found  other  view-points, 
and  I  determined  to  visit  the  place,  a  daring 
enough  proposition  for  a  New  Yorker. 

I  made  tentative  inquiries,  as  I  wished  to 
avoid  notoriety  —  the  mere  notion  of  a  native 
visiting  the  Hall  of  Fame  might  lead  to  inter 
national  complications.  A  Subway  guard,  after 
consulting  the  map  of  his  memory,  counselled 
me  to  take  the  Broadway  train  and  alight  at 
One  Hundred  and  Eighty-first  Street.  This  I 
did  on  the  hottest  day  of  August.  Then  a  news 
man  told  me  to  catch  the  University  Avenue  car. 

I  did  so,  my  wonderment  momentarily  in 
creasing.  I  knew  I  wasn't  quite  in  Albany  or 
Poughkeepsie,  for  I  saw  the  legend:  "Amsterdam 
Avenue"  when  I  came  out  of  the  Subway  "lift" 
(it  is  as  deep  at  One  Hundred  and  Eighty-first 
Street  as  in  the  London  Underground).  But 
University  Avenue  and  the  various  viaducts,  the 
glorious  sweep  of  the  valleys  and  hills  —  the 
coolness,  the  purity  of  the  air.  Where  was  I? 
Was  it  Sunium's  Heights?  The  conductor  of 
the  swift  trolley-car  told  me  the  neighbourhood 
was  known  as  "Kike's  Peak."  He  said  this 
soberly  and  I  could  see  he  meant  no  offense :  he 
but  recorded  a  simple  fact,  so  I  told  him  in 
return  that  God  was  ever  good  to  the  Irish  and 
to  his  own. 

After  that  diplomatic  stroke  we  got  on  fa 
mously,  for  he  was  Irish  himself. 
114 


BRAIN  AND   SOUL  AND   POCKETBOOK 

I  was  dropped  at  the  Hall  of  Fame  terrace 
about  ten  minutes  of  a  too  short  ride  from 
Amsterdam  Avenue.  Everywhere  open  coun 
try,  with  avenues  of  comfortable  houses,  man 
sions,  and  cottages.  The  stroll  up  a  quickly 
ascending  hill  was  reassuring. 

The  coll'ege  buildings  came  into  view.  One, 
with  a  cupola,  I  recognised  as  the  Hall  of  Fame 
—  as  I  had  supposed,  but  it  was  the  library  with 
its  large  rotunda  and  excellent  appointments. 
I  asked  a  man  who  was  operating  a  lawn-mower 
the  whereabouts  of  the  hall.  "There !"  he  said, 
indicating  a  colonnade  that  wound  about  the 
college  halls  and  faced  the  Harlem  River.  A 
handsome,  ornamental  granite  loggia  led  me 
from  one  end  of  the  terrace  to  the  other. 

There  is  a  museum  where  there  are  portraits 
and  other  memorials.  I  didn't  visit  it.  It  was 
the  bronze  tablets  that  interested  me.  Only  two 
portrait  busts  were  to  be  seen.  All  the  names 
of  the  celebrities  are  not  yet  in  bronze.  I  found 
Longfellow,  but  not  Poe;  then  it  occurred  to 
me  that  perhaps  his  name  would  never  figure 
among  the  mediocrities  of  the  hall ;  perhaps  also 
pious  prohibitionists  had  headed  off  the  inclu 
sion  of  the  name  of  a  notorious  drunkard,  and 
thus  evaded  a  painful  scandal. 

I  was  further  convinced  when  I  discovered  in 
the  Women's  Hall  the  name  of  a  temperance 
advocate.  What  a  charming  idea !  By  sheer 
negation  you  may  become  famous,  while  Poe, 
poet  and  "alcoholic,"  might  prove  the  contrary, 

"5 


BRAIN  AND   SOUL  AND   POCKETBOOK 

and  thus  be  a  dangerous  precedent.  Poor  Poe  ! 
Far  better  is  he  in  his  last  resting-place  at  Balti 
more.  I  know  I  slightly  annoyed  an  attendant 
in  the  library  by  asking  foolish  questions.  How 
ever,  if  you  wish  to  secure  a  niche  in  the  Hall  of 
Fame  call  early  and  register  with  your  urn. 
The  only  disqualification  is  the  possession  of 
genius,  and  as  that  is  a  rare  quality  in  any  land 
we  have  all  a  chance  for  immortality.  How  the 
celestial  convicts  in  heaven,  as  they  execute  their 
matutinal  rhythmic  lock-step,  must  envy  their 
neighbours  who  happen  to  be  in  the  Hall  of  Fame. 
A  mounted  policeman  showed  me  the  homeward 
route.  But  of  all  the  prospects  that  from  the 
colonnade  of  the  New  York  University  is  the 
most  arresting.  Even  the  chimneys  of  an  elec 
tric-light  plant  can't  quite  spoil  the  view.  Why 
more  people  don't  make  this  pilgrimage  instead 
of  crowding  the  dirty  beaches  at  Coney  Island 
must  be  set  down  to  perversity.  There  are 
no  peanuts  on  this  "Pike's  Peak"  of  the  Brain 
of  New  York. 

II 

When  I  first  made  known  my  plan  I  was 
scoffed  at,  then  commiserated,  and  finally  ad 
mired  for  my  audacity.  Never,  I  was  warned, 
would  I  survive  the  shock.  But  I  persisted. 
I  had  seen  the  basement  of  a  department  store 
from  the  Subway  and  the  outside  of  another  in 
Brooklyn,  why  shouldn't  I  venture  within? 
Once  I  attended  a  suffrage  meeting  and  I  still 
1x6 


BRAIN  AND   SOUL  AND   POCKETBOOK 

live.  Why  is  a  bargain  day  at  a  department 
store  more  dangerous  to  a  man?  Besides,  I 
had  read  Zola's  Au  Bonheur  des  Dames,  and 
could  reality  be  more  gigantic  than  that  par 
ticular  fiction?  In  Berlin  a  visit  to  Wertheim's, 
on  the  Leipzigerstrasse,  hadn't  daunted  me,  nor 
the  stores  of  Tietz,  nor  had  the  Grands  Magasins 
du  Louvre  or  Au  Printemps  in  Paris  ruffled  me; 
indeed,  I  found  some  of  these  establishments 
diverting  though  disappointing,  after  their  Amer 
ican  rivals. 

In  London,  Selfridge's,  Peter  Robinson's, 
Snelgrove's,  or  any  of  the  other  smart  shops 
in  Regent  or  Oxford  Streets  did  not  convince 
me  that  imitation  is  always  the  sincerest  form 
of  flattery.  Certainly  the  London  big  stores 
are  modelled  after  ours,  and  their  imitation  is 
far  from  the  original.  I  am  not  boasting,  only 
stating  a  hard  fact  known  to  every  New  York 
woman  who  shops  abroad. 

But  could  I  stand  a  bargain  day  in  New  York? 
That  was  the  rub.  After  praying  to  escape 
battle,  murder,  and  sudden  death  and  inspect 
ing  my  life-insurance  policy  I  placed  myself  in 
the  custody  of  one  who  knew  the  ropes,  and, 
closing  my  eyes,  entered  one  of  the  biggest.  I 
was  at  once  whirled  to  the  top  of  the  palace  and 
shown  a  spotless  kitchen.  I  saw  people  eating 
in  large,  airy  dining-rooms,  from  the  balconies 
and  windows  of  which  the  city  might  be  en 
joyed.  The  quality  of  the  cooking  amazed  me, 
but  not  as  much  as  the  tariff.  That's  why  men 
117 


BRAIN  AND   SOUL  AND   POCKETBOOK 

were  present.  A  man  dearly  loves  a  "bargain" 
luncheon.  I  dived  down  to  the  cellar  in  an  ex 
press  elevator  and  inspected  acres  of  things. 
Each  floor  I  repeated  the  same  experience.  I 
thought  of  the  once-celebrated  French  conjurer 
and  prestidigitator,  Robert  Houdin,  the  first 
to  apply  electricity  to  clocks,  the  clever  magician 
who  invented  "second  sight." 

I  remembered  how  he  had,  in  company  with 
his  son,  his  "accomplice,"  so  trained  his  eye 
and  faculty  of  attention  that,  after  passing  a 
shop-window  heaped  up  with  a  hundred  articles 
he  could  remember  them  all  and  write  down  the 
list  for  verification.  I  wondered  if  his  shrewd 
and  embracing  vision  could  have  captured  the 
distracting  number  of  objects  on  a  single  floor 
here.  In  a  multicoloured  dream  I  wandered 
through  a  maze  of  matter,  labyrinths  of  glitter 
ing  shapes.  As  in  a  nightmare  I  saw  carpets 
that  courteously  saluted  me  and  grand  pianos 
in  company  with  tin  pails  that  gossiped  to 
gether. 

Haughty  damsels  regarded  me  icily.  "  Going 
up ! "  became  a  Leitmotiv  at  every  landing.  With 
admiration  I  registered  the  memory  of  the 
coloured  gentlemen  who  manipulated  the  ele 
vators.  Ladies,  hot,  cool,  fat,  and  slender,  en 
tered  at  every  stop.  They  didn't  seem  dan 
gerous.  I  passed  vast  rooms  all  white,  or  red, 
in  a  mysterious  half-light.  I  looked  the  other 
way  when  we  encountered  oceans  of  lingerie. 

Finally,  a  slight  hubbub  told  me  that  we  were 
118 


BRAIN  AND   SOUL  AND   POCKETBOOK 

near  the  seat  of  war.  Yet  everybody  stood. 
Seats,  an  army  of  them !  I  saw  a  mass  of  fe 
males  in  an  inextricable  tangle,  and  I  thought 
of  the  Stock  Exchange.  Nothing  was  different 
except  the  absence  of  shouting. 

But  in  lieu  thereof  a  serried  battalion  of  de 
termined  feminine  warriors  swept  the  bastions, 
and  the  enemy  was  theirs.  The  only  wounded, 
strange  to  say,  was  a  thin,  tall  floor-walker.  He 
limped  away  in  the  direction  of  the  wholesale 
perfume  department. 

I  timidly  asked  what  was  the  booty  of  war, 
and  promptly  received  a  snub:  " Didn't  you 
read  this  morning  that  gimp  was  marked  down 
one-half?"  Bon  Dieu!  What  is  gimp,  and 
why  should  it  be  "marked  down"?  "What 
songs  the  sirens  sing!"  once  wrote  Sir  Thomas 
Browne. 

Elsewhere  we  experienced  no  bargain  rushes, 
only  plain  bargains  without  battle.  The  base 
ment  positively  intimidated  me.  People  really 
go  to  these  shops  unafraid  and  unarmed.  Think 
of  the  miles  and  miles  of  material  spread  before 
you !  Think  of  the  tax  on  eyes  and  legs  involved 
in  a  day's  shopping !  Yet  women,  day  after  day, 
thus  put  in  their  time  walking  and  bargaining 
and  staring.  On  Sundays  they  devour  the  ad 
vertising  pages  of  the  newspapers  in  search  of 
the  particular  article  they  long  to  procure  at  a 
bargain.  Little  surprise  that  we  are  a  nation 
of  idealists  when  womankind  "uplifts"  us 
through  the  subtle  "marking  down"  of  values. 
119 


BRAIN  AND   SOUL  AND   POCKETBOOK 

I  traversed,  not  without  grumbling  —  the 
pace  was  beginning  to  tell  —  such  stores  as  I 
had  read  about.  Arriving  at  the  most  palatial 
rather  fagged  but  still  determined,  I  found  there 
an  air  of  classic  restraint.  The  open  centre  to 
the  roof  is  refreshing  after  some  oppressive  ceil 
ings  I  had  passed  under. 

Nowhere  on  the  globe  are  there  shops  like 
ours.  If  people  say  Paris  or  London  or  Berlin, 
simply  reply  —  New  York !  You  may  buy  any 
thing  from  an  elephant  skin  to  a  needle.  But 
so  lacking  in  the  "bargain"  sense  are  men  that 
when  I  finally  escaped,  about  five  o'clock,  to  the 
park  I  found  that  I  had  not  bought  a  penny's 
worth  except  some  luncheon  and  an  ice. 

In  other  words,  I  was  an  impostor.  But  there 
are  thousands  such,  chiefly  women,  who  pass 
the  day  agreeably  in  pricing  goods  they  never 
purchase.  It  is  their  substitute  for  alcohol,  and 
a  less  dangerous  one.  (Ahem !)  As  I  watched 
some  who  really  bought  after  much  chaffering 
for  the  sake  of  chaffering,  I  recalled  Rabelais's 
description  of  a  dog  with  a  marrow-bone:  "If 
you  have  seen  him  you  might  have  remarked 
with  what  devotion  and  circumspection  he 
watches  and  wards  it;  with  what  care  he  keeps 
it;  how  fervently  he  holds  it;  how  prudently 
he  gobbets  it;  with  what  affection  he  breaks  it; 
with  diligence  he  sucks  it."  Bargain  day  is  a 
marrow-bone  sweet  to  woman;  sweeter  even 
than  the  Votiform  Appendix. 


1 20 


BRAIN   AND   SOUL   AND   POCKETBOOK 

III 

When  I  began  this  series  of  studies  devoted 
to  intimate  New  York  I  had  no  intention  of 
describing  the  town  at  large,  only  the  corners 
that  appealed  to  me;  but  as  you  are  carried 
against  your  will  in  a  human  maelstrom,  so  I 
find  myself  far  from  my  original  plan. 

I  have,  for  myself,  rediscovered  New  York. 
Its  vastness  almost  appals.  No  fear  of  over- 
populating,  if  the  East  Side  congestion  could  be 
tapped.  There  is  room  enough  for  millions 
north  of  us,  and  without  crossing  the  rivers. 

On  the  libraries  I  shan't  dwell.  They  are  at 
your  elbow  if  you  choose  to  visit  them.  I  still 
regret  the  old  Lenox  Library,  possibly  because 
of  its  position.  Certainly  no  structure  will 
duplicate  its  dignity  and  massiveness.  With 
the  New  York  Library  I  am  not  yet  well  ac 
quainted.  I  have  dropped  in  to  some  excellent 
exhibitions  of  Frank  Weitenkampf,  curator  of 
the  print  department,  but  I  feel  strange  in  the 
library  proper,  possibly  because  I  miss  the 
homely  atmosphere  of  the  Astor  Library. 

Of  the  clubs  and  hospitals  there  is  naught  to 
be  said  here,  and  it  would  be  superfluous  to  find 
fault  with  the  ugly  Metropolitan  Opera  House 
when  so  much  beautiful  music  is  made  within; 
or  with  the  Metropolitan  Museum  of  Art,  so 
beautiful  without. 

I  wonder  who  would  read  literature  in  our  pub 
lic  libraries  or  visit  the  Metropolitan  Museum 
121 


BRAIN  AND   SOUL  AND   POCKETBOOK 

of  Art  if  there  was  no  East  Side !  Isn't  it  odd 
that  these  "foreigners"  are  in  the  majority 
among  the  visitors  of  our  art  institution  in  Cen 
tral  Park  ?  To  be  sure,  there  are  warmer  places 
in  town  on  a  June  Sunday  afternoon.  This  fact 
is  appreciated  by  a  large  number  of  folk  hailing 
from  the  East  Side.  You  meet  them  there  any 
time  after  the  dinner-hour  —  German  mode  — 
and  in  any  of  the  side  streets  from  Sixtieth  to  One 
Hundredth,  starting  from  Avenue  A.  They  wear 
holiday  clothes,  and  they  beam  with  satisfaction. 
A  treat  is  ahead  of  them.  To  wander  in  the  cool 
twilight  of  the  lower  galleries;  to  flirt  in  the  face 
of  the  Egyptian  mummies;  to  giggle  and  gossip 
among  the  monster  plaster  casts;  to  stare  at  the 
marbles  or  sit  placidly  before  bright-coloured 
pictures  —  what  joy  for  the  "uncultured  "  classes 
of  the  far  East  Side !  You  see  them  streaming 
up  Fifth  Avenue.  Their  faces  are  shiny.  It  is 
hot.  Fathers  and  mothers  with  families,  some 
times  numbering  eight  or  ten  —  ask  the  door 
keepers,  who  groan  and  growl  as  the  entire 
"mishpogah"  attempt  to  push  through  the  turn 
stile  at  the  same  moment  —  Russians,  Italians, 
Poles,  Hungarians,  Bohemians,  Serbs,  Croats, 
Greeks,  Roumanians  —  Hebrews  many  of  them 
—  file  by  and  ramble  about,  content  to  be  re 
minded  of  some  European  or  semi-Asiatic  city, 
where,  on  their  native  heath,  they  once  looked 
at  pictures  with  the  same  appreciation. 

A  Walt  Whitman  catalogue  alone  could  sum 
up  the  ethnical  and  kaleidoscopic  variety  of  the 
122 


BRAIN  AND   SOUL  AND   POCKETBOOK 

mob  that  besieges  the  museum  gate  on  summer 
Sunday  afternoons.  Yet  a  decorous,  on  occa 
sion  even  a  reverent,  crowd,  especially  before 
sacred  subjects,  and  a  mob  startlingly  garbed. 
The  children  prefer  the  ground  floor.  It  is  of 
stone  and  cooler,  there  are  "queerer"  things 
to  be  seen  than  up-stairs.  Sleighs  shaped  like 
boats,  and  dead  men  and  women  in  marble  on 
tombs,  and  churches,  too;  above  all,  Notre- 
Dame  and  the  Pantheon.  How  delightful  would 
it  be  if  there  were  such  toys  at  home.  How  the 
babies  would  crawl  in  and  out  of  the  big  doors ! 
Perhaps  they  might  make  a  big  bonfire  if  straw 
and  matches  could  be  gathered  !  The  mummies 
—  what  a  jolly  set  of  ugly  mugs  in  painted, 
canoe-like  coverings !  What  a  glorious  ride  on 
that  Colleoni  horse,  whose  feet  must  wear  in 
visible  seven-league  boots,  so  magnificent  the 
possibility  of  their  stride !  The  George  Grey 
Barnard  group  always  elicits  puzzled  remarks; 
a  wrestling-match,  with  the  under  man  down 
and  out  for  ever,  is  the  usual  verdict. 

But  before  Borglum's  Mares  of  Diomedes 
there  are  no  doubts  expressed.  "A  good  run 
for  your  money!"  says  a  sporty  youth,  with 
hair  plastered  on  forehead.  His  girl  nods.  It 
is  an  object-lesson  in  the  psychology  of  sex  to 
watch  the  procession  passing  Makart's  monster 
panel,  with  its  riot  of  women  in  dazzling  nudity. 
The  girls  always  gaze  unaffectedly  at  the  explo 
sive  colour  and  large-limbed  creatures.  Their 
masculine  escorts  look  carefully  in  the  opposite 
123 


BRAIN  AND   SOUL  AND   POCKETBOOK 

direction.  Why?  It  may  not  be  amiss  to 
state  that  the  museum  authorities  displayed 
admirable  judgment  in  their  refusal  to  fig-leaf 
modern  statuary.  At  the  Louvre,  at  the  Vat 
ican,  at  a  dozen  other  galleries  in  Europe,  this 
needlessly  offensive  custom  prevails.  New  York, 
with  all  its  infernal  prudery  and  prurience,  has 
not  thus  defaced  Rodin's  superb  bronze,  1'Age 
d'Airain.  It  is  Rodin  at  his  best;  nervous  the 
touch,  sinewy  the  figure,  the  planes  of  which 
melt  into  the  ambient  atmosphere  no  matter 
from  which  point  you  approach.  It  is  as  good,  if 
not  better,  than  the  original  at  the  Luxembourg. 
Its  stark  power,  however,  carries  no  message  for 
the  Sunday  guests,  though  you  note  an  occa 
sional  look  of  awe ;  but  to  the  multitude  it  is  one 
naked  man  the  more;  therefore  to  be  warily 
circled. 

What  charm  lurks  in  the  bronzes  by  Jules 
Dalou!  Mother's  Love  is  a  centre  of  attrac 
tion.  As  for  the  lace  collections  —  they  are 
ever  difficult  to  reach,  because  of  the  women. 
The  merits  of  Manet,  Monet,  and  Whistler  may 
be  left  to  critical  mankind;  but  every  woman 
who  enters  the  building,  whether  she  wears  a 
shawl  on  her  head  or  rides  there  in  a  motor-car, 
is  an  authority  on  lace.  Go  and  judge  for  your 
self.  Mrs.  W.  K.  Vanderbilt  has  donated  a 
"creation"  in  Brussels  applique,  once  the  prop 
erty  of  Isabella,  late  Queen  of  Spain  (a  lace- 
like  lady  in  her  diaphanous  day).  As  it  is  a 
baptism  dress  with  veil,  the  women  are  literally 
124 


BRAIN  AND   SOUL   AND   POCKETBOOK 

mad  over  it.  But  let  us  fight  our  way  up-stairs. 
On  the  main  staircase  we  stumbled  over  a 
family  party  comfortably  settled  for  an  im 
promptu  luncheon;  the  cold  eggs  were  being 
tapped  when  an  attendant,  on  the  verge  of  a 
righteous  apoplexy,  came  to  the  rescue,  and 
wails  of  indignation  arose  from  the  lungs  of  six 
hungry  children.  "Art  be  hanged!"  is  what 
the  father  muttered  in  Czech,  as  he  piloted  his 
crew  to  the  green  and  more  hospitable  park. 
The  museum  men  have  their  troubles. 

The  Morgan  collection  is  a  Mecca  for  the  ma 
jority.  They  make  for  these  galleries  —  as  a 
rule  the  hottest  in  the  museum  —  with  a  una 
nimity  that  spells  for  the  curious  the  colossal 
attraction  in  the  name  of  J.  Pierpont  Morgan. 
This  loan  collection  includes  some  beautiful 
pictures,  but  not  the  best  in  the  museum.  How 
ever,  the  crowds  flock  to  Georgiana,  Duchess 
of  Devonshire,  because  of  her  legend  as  well  as 
her  hat.  The  name  of  Gainsborough  you  hear 
last.  A  favourite  is  Miss  Farren,  by  Lawrence. 
The  Raphael  is  not  a  big  drawing  card.  It 
leaves  the  multitude  untouched  —  seemingly; 
I  can  only  judge  by  appearances.  Nor  are  the 
Hobbema  or  the  Van  Dycks  much  admired;  but 
Reynolds  —  Lady  Betty  and  Her  Children  — 
the  Greuze,  the  Hoppner,  and  other  canvases 
of  the  ilk  never  miss  an  audience.  Subject,  not 
art,  is  the  lodestone.  It  was  ever  thus,  and  ever 
will  be,  let  critics  scold  as  they  may.  A  little 
girl  playing  with  a  kitten  would  swerve  the 

125 


BRAIN  AND   SOUL  AND   POCKETBOOK 

attention  of  the  public  from  such  a  master 
piece  as  The  Maids  of  Honor,  by  Velasquez. 
Naturally,  the  furniture  and  porcelains  in 
this  section  come  in  for  their  due  share  of 
homage. 

Though  we  have  no  Salon  Carre,  no  Tribuna, 
in  the  museum,  there  is  a  certain  gallery,  with 
its  priceless  works  of  art,  that  would  be  a  par 
adise  to  live  in.  With  the  two  small  Rodins 
for  company  regard  the  old  lady  of  Frans  Hals 
and  her  sober-faced  husband.  There  in  the 
Rembrandt  Sibyl,  or  the  well-fed  gentleman  wear 
ing  a  turban,  you  may  see  the  self-portrait  of 
Rembrandt.  The  Goya  is  flauntingly  brilliant 
in  comparison.  But  it  is  rather  disconcerting 
to  observe  the  blank  air  of  non-recognition  with 
which  the  collection  in  this  gallery  is  observed. 
The  same  is  the  case  with  the  new  Vincent  Van 
Gogh,  or  the  wonderful  sketch  by  Manet  of  a 
Montmartre  funeral.  The  mob  presses  through 
to  the  adjoining  room,  there  to  admire  pink  sun 
sets,  silly  flower  girls,  glazed  marines  —  a  con 
glomeration  of  the  most  indigestible  pictures  in 
the  building.  It  is  the  subject  that  attracts  the 
throngs.  All  the  afternoon  you  hear  the  babble, 
and  if  you  are  a  linguist  you  may  remark  the 
similarity  of  the  questions  and  exclamations  be 
fore  the  Winslow  Homer  canvas,  which  dra 
matically  depicts  a  sea  scene:  "Oh,  my!  Look 
at  the  black  man !  He's  dead.  No,  he  isn't, 
but  he  soon  expects  to  be  swallowed  up  by 
those  sharks.  What  sharks?  Isn't  he  fishing? 
126 


BRAIN  AND   SOUL   AND   POCKETBOOK 

There's  his  line,  that  coloured  rope.  Unsinn ! 
It's  a  devil-fish,  see  it  wriggle  its  eight  arms ! 
Yes,  eight,  just  count  'em.  There's  a  water 
spout  !  The  ship !  the  ship !  Ain't  the  water 
wet  and  green  ?  " 

About  a  half  dozen  keepers  succumb  of  a  Sun 
day  in  answering  the  questions  put  to  them. 
No  wonder.  Homer  has  painted  better  pictures 
than  this  framed  melodrama  of  piratical  hor 
rors,  but  none  so  popular.  The  Renoir  group 
is  comparatively  neglected,  the  Manets  abso 
lutely  neglected,  with  the  possible  exception  of 
the  Boy  with  a  Sword.  Possibly  the  rich  har 
monies  of  the  Renoir-Charpentier  family  por 
trait  do  not  appeal.  I  saw  several  persons 
study  the  little  girl  sitting  on  the  large  dog,  but 
whether  it  is  the  child  is  not  pretty  enough  — 
as  a  matter  of  fact,  she  is  adorable  —  or  because 
the  bluish  tone  distracts,  only  a  shrug  of  the 
shoulder  happened  before  this  work.  It  prob 
ably  denotes  suspended  opinion;  no  such  shrugs 
occur  in  the  face  of  the  two  Claude  Monets, 
which  hang  hard  by  —  frank  grinning  is  often 
accompanied  by  laughter.  The  vivid  beach 
scene  with  the  choppy  waves  and  lovely  sky  are 
too  much  for  many.  Because  it  evokes  nature 
this  marine  offends  or  tickles  the  risible  rib. 
If  the  water  had  been  pink,  the  sand  inky,  and 
the  sky  full  of  woolen  clouds,  and  the  human 
figures  carved  out  —  oh !  what  cries  of  amaze 
ment  and  joy.  Meissonier!  That's  the  chap 
for  us.  His  soldiers,  his  horses  (hair,  hoof,  hide), 
127 


BRAIN  AND   SOUL  AND   POCKETBOOK 

you  can  see  them  all  —  count  the  hairs  —  clear 
as  glass  or  brass.  Besides,  he  tells  a  story. 

So  does  Detaille.  What  good  is  that  ugly 
guitarist  of  Edouard  Manet  ?  Why,  he  looks  like 
a  little  old  Spaniard  in  Houston  Street  who 
plunks  out  Iberian  melodies  for  you,  and  is  glad 
to  earn  a  copper.  That's  the  trouble.  He  is  too 
lifelike,  this  Manet,  even  for  the  Academy  Sig- 
nori  —  extremes  meet,  the  East  Side  and  learned 
academicians.  His  silhouette  may  be  as  mas 
terful  as  if  executed  by  Goya;  his  eyes,  they 
burn  with  a  hard  fire;  and  look  at  his  hat,  his 
costume  —  no !  all  this  is  mere  imitation.  The 
proletarians  are  idealists,  as  are  our  academic 
painters.  They  all  want  to  dream;  they  long 
for  the  unreal;  their  ice-cream  is  pink  of  hue. 
They  sigh  for  Marble  Halls  by  Lord  Leighton 
and  Alma-Tadema.  Life  is  dull,  drab,  cruel  — 
at  times,  vile ;  in  art  let  us  get  away  from  life  as 
far  as  possible !  Thus  do  Laura  Jean  Libbey, 
Marie  Corelli,  Hall  Caine,  and  the  East  Side 
touch  hands  with  our  immortal  academy.  A 
little  touch  of  pink  paint  makes  all  the  world  kin. 

With  or  without  his  note-book,  a  likely  re 
porter  could  glean  columns  of  Sunday  after 
noon  stories  at  the  museum.  I  notice  that  the 
" popular"  guide,  in  the  guise  of  a  young  lady, 
has  already  begun.  Students  of  character  after 
"human  interest"  anecdotes,  and  sociological 
sleuths,  would  be  embarrassed  by  the  richness 
of  the  soil.  There  are  girls  enough  there  on 
Sundays  to  people  our  barren  moon;  they  are, 
128 


BRAIN  AND   SOUL  AND   POCKETBOOK 

for  the  major  part,  broad  of  girth,  squat  of  figure, 
bright-eyed,  and  often  possess  a  pretty  wit. 
Said  one,  before  that  too  voluptuous  Cabanel, 
The  Birth  of  Venus  (a  capital  soap  advertise 
ment)  :  "Sadie,  what's  she  called?"  "The  Bath 
of  Venus,"  replied  the  other.  No  one  smiled,  for 
the  improvised  title  fitted.  Whistler's  Falling 
Rocket  is  not  popular.  "It's  too  dark  to  see 
the  sparks,"  said  a  man  who  had  sneered  the 
Monets  off  the  map  of  his  acquaintance.  But 
one  painter's  —  I've  forgotten  his  name  — •  pic 
ture  of  the  forging  of  a  shaft,  with  its  glow  of 
molten  metal,  is  a  perpetual  object  of  interest. 

No  one  stops  in  front  of  the  portrait  of  a 
Spanish  Lady,  by  Mariano  Fortuny.  Why  not 
replace  it  by  an  Eastman  Johnson  "coon"  sub 
ject?  There's  a  popular  idea  for  you!  The 
Vanderbilt  gallery  is  always  crowded;  the  va 
riety  of  themes  and  its  painters  make  it  beloved. 
Nor  should  the  supercilious  critic  wave  inef 
fectual  flags  of  protest.  Deeply  implanted  in 
the  human  consciousness  there  is  a  craving  for 
the  tale  simply  told.  The  Vanderbilt  gallery 
supplies  many  examples.  The  Millets,  Dau- 
bignys,  Meissoniers,  De  Neuvilles,  Detailles, 
Benjamin  Constant,  and  the  Oriental  subjects 
of  Fromentin,  Gerome,  Decamps,  and  others 
are  always  the  centre  for  admiring  visitors. 
And  who  shall  gainsay  their  taste?  This  mid- 
century  art  was  once  the  shibboleth  of  our 
fathers,  to  whom  misty  impressionism,  angular 
cubism,  and  imbecile  futurism  was,  and  is,  a 
129 


BRAIN  AND   SOUL  AND   POCKETBOOK 

riddle  and  an  eyesore.  Take  them,  by  and 
large,  the  East  Side  crowds  that  fill  the  Metro 
politan  Museum  on  Sunday  afternoons  are  as 
excellent  judges  as  the  visitors  on  pay-days. 
At  least  they  know  what  they  dislike. 

A  more  gracious  form  of  public  benefaction 
is  hardly  conceivable  than  the  Benjamin  Altman 
donation  of  art  treasures  to  the  Metropolitan 
Museum.  Mr.  Altman  loved  pictures  and  porce 
lains  and  sculptures,  and,  while  not  a  man  with 
a  fixed  idea  or  belief  in  any  one  school,  still  he 
knew  what  he  wanted  and  procured  it.  His 
picture-gallery  was  not  the  result  of  long  years 
of  meditation  and  collecting,  though  his  china 
was.  He  had  certain  preferences,  notably  the 
quaint  old  Dutch  school,  some  Flemish  prim 
itives,  and  the  noble  Spaniard,  Velasquez.  Yet 
that  did  not  prevent  him  from  admiring  the 
Italian  primitives,  and,  while  his  magnificent 
gift  to  the  museum  is  in  no  sense  a  representa 
tive  gathering  of  any  particular  school,  never 
theless  it  reveals  the  catholic  tastes  of  its  donor. 
But  we  must  guard  against  the  prevalent  opin 
ion  that  the  Altman  collection  is  faultless,  is 
above  criticism;  indiscriminate  admiration  nat 
urally  enough  expressed  just  now  in  the  first 
flush  of  gratitude  at  the  magnitude  of  the  gift 
may  prove  a  stumbling-block  to  both  student 
and  amateur;  in  a  word,  all  the  pictures  and 
art  objects  in  this  collection  are  not  master 
pieces.  Far  from  it.  There  are  private  col 
lections  in  America  that  excel  at  every  point, 
130 


BRAIN  AND   SOUL   AND   POCKETBOOK 

quality  and  quantity,  the  Altman;  furthermore, 
there  is  bound  to  be  a  slump  in  critical  values 
if  the  key  is  pitched  too  high  at  the  outset. 
Consider  the  case  of  the  Morgan  collection  and 
the  now  openly  expressed  disappointment  of  con 
noisseurs  who  had  expected  something  fault 
less,  whereas,  setting  aside  the  Raphael,  the 
Fragonards,  and  the  Gainsborough  Duchess, 
there  are  some  pessimistic  people  who  assert 
that  the  gem  of  the  collection  in  the  museum  is 
the  portrait  of  a  little  Dutch  baby,  and  that  by 
an  unknown  master,  for  masterly  it  is. 

Therefore,  it  is  well  to  guard  against  uncritical 
enthusiasm.  All  Rembrandts  are  not  master 
pieces  —  especially  when  his  pupils  painted 
them;  and  Frans  Hals  painted  unequally,  as  the 
Altman  examples  prove  up  to  the  hilt.  Nor 
must  the  rather  reckless  use  of  such  sacred  names 
as  Giorgione  and  Titian  be  accepted  without  pro 
test.  But  the  Rembrandt  Gallery  is  a  hand 
some  one,  a  baker's  dozen  of  the  masters,  and, 
while  it  cannot  be  compared  en  masse  with  the 
Cassel  Gallery  assemblage  —  what  gallery  can 
outside  of  the  Rijks  Museum  ?  —  the  Altman 
Rembrandts  are  his  trump-cards.  Several,  at 
least,  are  masterpieces;  all  are  of  interest, 
though  not  equal  in  artistic  merit.  The  Old 
Woman  Cutting  Her  Nails  is  a  magisterial, 
almost  monumental,  work,  and  is  already  the 
lodestone  for  visitors.  Yet,  after  two  or  three 
visits  it  ceased  to  make  the  profound  appeal  it 
should  have  done,  because  it  is  obviously  not 


BRAIN  AND   SOUL  AND   POCKETBOOK 

Rembrandt  at  his  mightiest.  For  one  thing, 
the  figure  is  overmodelled ;  the  bulk  is  sculp 
tural  rather  than  pictorial ;  there  is  more  than  a 
suggestion  of  pose,  of  a  self-consciousness  that 
robs  the  composition  of  pristine  simplicity,  of 
the  effortless  art  of  which  Rembrandt  knew  so 
well  the  secret.  Dramatic  is  this  old  woman 
with  the  untrimmed  nails,  but  she  is  also  out  of, 
and  not  in,  the  frame  —  like  an  operatic  prima- 
donna  she  faces  the  footlights  ready  for  her 
exalted  aria.  Of  the  paint  quality  there  is  no 
doubt  —  it  is  beautiful  in  its  easy  sweep  and  fat 
richness.  The  imagination  of  the  Seer  of  Am 
sterdam  is  greatly  daring,  and  the  head  is  sibyl 
line,  but  not  altogether  in  the  clear-obscure  of 
the  painter.  Simplicity  is  the  quality  least  in 
evidence.  If  this  sounds  like  hypercriticism, 
please  remember  I've  lived  with  the  Rembrandts 
of  the  Louvre,  National  Gallery,  at  Cassel,  and 
in  Holland.  Still,  what  a  piece  of  luck  for  Mr. 
Altman  to  have  secured  this  rare  specimen,  for 
it  is  unlike  any  Rembrandt  I've  ever  seen  in  its 
rhetorical  quality.  From  the  sombre  heart  of 
darkness  the  master  plucked  mystery,  and, 
except  in  his  etchings  —  after  all,  the  man  at 
his  best  —  he  seldom  touches  earth  with  his 
august  feet;  touches  reality,  as  did,  say,  Vermeer. 
But  this  old  woman  like  her  neighbour,  also 
an  old  lady,  is  far  from  being  the  Elizabeth  Bas 
of  the  Rijks.  More  characteristic  is  the  Toilet 
of  Bathsheba,  on  another  wall.  This  lovely 
dream  in  gloom  and  old  gold  I  studied  for  years 
132 


BRAIN  AND   SOUL  AND   POCKETBOOK 

in  the  back  room  of  Count  Steengracht's  man 
sion  on  the  Vyverberg,  at  The  Hague.  How 
many  visitors  to  that  fascinating  Dutch  city 
have  admired  this  woman  who  tempted  the  royal 
psalmodist !  She  is  not  subtle  or  comely  as  are 
the  Titian  women,  but  she  is  compelling  enough, 
and  she  is  placed  in  an  enchanting  glow  which 
Rembrandt  alone  could  evoke.  For  me,  Bath- 
sheba  is  the  Rembrandt  of  the  Altman  collec 
tion,  and  after  the  first  imperious  pull  of  The 
Old  Woman  Cutting  Her  Nails  relaxes,  you  will 
find  yourself  returning  to  the  magnetic  portrait 
of  the  unfaithful  wife,  which  has  the  true  vis 
ionary  aspect  of  Rembrandt.  Why  the  Rijks 
Museum  authorities  allowed  this  masterpiece  to 
escape  may  be  set  down  to  the  fact  that  too 
much  money  had  been  spent  on  the  new  Ver- 
meers  from  the  Six  collections.  And  a  Vermeer 
is  always  worth  a  dozen  Rembrandts  on  the 
sheer  score  of  rarity. 

The  Lady  with  a  Pink  is  attractive,  as  is  the 
portrait  of  The  Auctioneer.  The  Pilate  did 
not  intrigue  me;  it  seems  rather  vague  or  empty. 
The  Man  with  a  Magnifying  Glass  is  psycho 
logically  strong.  The  others  are  more  or  less 
negligible.  Hendrickje  Stoffels  is  distinctly  in 
ferior  to  the  portraits  of  the  same  lady  in  the 
Louvre  and  the  Kaiser  Friedrich  Museum,  Berlin. 
The  so-called  Little  Masters  were  a  disappoint 
ment,  the  Vermeer  —  Holland's  master  colourist 
-  being  an  early  effort,  the  so-called  Drunken 
Servant  Asleep,  said  to  be  from  the  historical 

133 


BRAIN  AND   SOUL  AND   POCKETBOOK 

sale  of  1696;  though  Burger-Thore  believes  Mr. 
Widener's  picture  with  the  same  name,  but  dif 
ferently  treated,  is  the  original  of  that  sale. 
Certainly  it  is  better  painted  than  the  Altman 
example,  which  latter  is  a  rather  dull,  heavy  per 
formance  —  its  edges  are  too  soft  for  the  mas 
ter —  lacking  the  magic  atmosphere,  spacing, 
and  exquisite  touch  of  Vermeer.  Some  of  the 
still-life  shows  his  touch,  and  there  are  passages 
of  paint  in  the  rug  that  are  superb ;  the  wall,  too, 
is  very  swell;  but,  as  a  Vermeer,  this  does  not 
rank  with  Mr.  Widener's  Woman  Weighing 
Pearls,  Mrs.  Gardner's,  Mr.  Frick's,  or  Mr.  J. 
G.  Johnson's,  in  Philadelphia.  Go,  after  study 
ing  it,  into  the  Marquand  room  at  the  Metro 
politan  Museum,  and  look  at  the  thrice-lovely 
girl  with  the  pitcher,  sometimes  called  The  Girl 
Opening  the  Casement.  That  is  beautiful  Ver 
meer,  with  its  blue,  yellow,  and  silvery-grey 
tonalities,  much  more  so  than  the  Morgan  Ver 
meer,  which  hangs  hard  by.  I  confess  that  the 
De  Hooch,  Nicholas  Maes,  the  Gerard  Dou,  the 
Terburg  (or  Terborch)  did  not  interest  me;  like 
the  three  Frans  Halses,  they  are  mediocre.  The 
Wheatfields,  by  Jacob  Van  Ruisdael,  is  fine  and 
better  than  the  Hobbema.  Of  the  three  ex 
amples  by  Frans  Hals,  two  of  them  are  in  his 
bacchanalian,  bombastic  vein  —  a  Jan  Steen 
vein.  I  recall  The  Merry  Company  from  the 
Hudson-Fulton  Exhibition.  Its  pattern  is  in 
genious,  its  colour  scheme  hot  and  flamboyant. 
None  of  the  three  display  the  virtuoso  brush 

134 


BRAIN  AND   SOUL  AND   POCKETBOOK 

work  of  the  brilliant  Dutchman.  I  like  better 
the  Marquand  Halses,  not  to  mention  the  Rem- 
brandts;  but  not  the  so-called  Hille  Bobbe,  or 
The  Smoker,  which  are  both  unhappy  attribu 
tions;  the  original  of  Hille  is  in  the  Kaiser 
Friedrich  Museum,  Berlin.  It  wouldn't  sur 
prise  me  to  learn  that  several  of  these  Halses 
are  by  Dirk,  not  Frans. 

The  Christ  of  Velasquez  is,  as  De  Beruete 
relates,  an  early  work.  It  is  hot  and  heavy  in 
colour,  as  heavy  as  Caravaggio.  A  Velasquez 
for  the  student  of  his  various  manners  it  is,  but 
not  very  convincing.  The  Philip  IV  is  a  pale, 
feeble  school  piece,  possibly  by  his  son-in-law, 
Mazo.  At  the  Prado,  and  in  the  National  Gal 
lery,  the  real  Philip  IV  may  be  seen;  not  here  — 
above  all,  not  in  the  Boston  Museum,  where  the 
Philip  might  be  a  replica  of  the  Altman,  or 
t'other  way  about.  The  two  Van  Dycks  are 
nice,  though  hardly  significant;  nor  by  the  same 
token  is  the  Titian.  Giorgione  and  Vermeer  are 
such  rare  birds  that  it  is  arrant  blasphemy  to 
place  their  names  in  a  catalogue  unless  the  pic 
ture  ascribed  to  either  of  them  is  unmistakable. 
Mr.  Berenson  believes  this  Altman  portrait  to 
be  an  unquestionable  Giorgione,  and  there  is  no 
disputing  Berenson.  Nor  Bode,  either.  But 
even  if  it  is  a  Giorgione,  does  that  say  much  for 
this  particular  canvas?  It  is  the  Venetian  of 
his  period,  and  exhales  a  certain  charm,  as  do 
many  Venetian  artists  of  Big  George  of  Castel- 
franco's  days. 

135 


BRAIN  AND   SOUL  AND   POCKETBOOK 

A  few  years  ago  I  happened  to  be  in  Hamburg, 
and  reading  the  advertisement  of  Consul  Weber's 
pictures,  I  visited  his  house,  and  there  found  a 
few  good  pictures,  also  a  profusion  of  junk  and 
wholly  worthless  attributions.  A  small  Rem 
brandt,  the  head  of  a  boy,  was  capital,  and  at 
the  sale  later  eagerly  snapped  up.  Down  on 
the  dismal  cellar-like  first  floor  were  about  a 
half  acre  of  Flemish,  German,  and  Italian  prim 
itives.  Among  them  The  Holy  Family,  by 
Andrea  Mantegna,  which  Mr.  Altman  was 
happy  in  capturing.  It  is  the  treasure  of  his 
Italian  section,  a  work  of  exceeding  charm  and 
nobility.  Mantegna  is  not  often  encountered 
in  European  galleries,  and  now  artistic  Europe 
may  visit  our  museum  to  see  this  Mantegna.  I 
wish  I  could  become  as  enthusiastic  over  the 
Memlings  —  of  which  one  at  least  betrays  Ger 
man  origin  (all  these  Memlings  are  doubtful), 
or  the  Albrecht  Diirer  —  once  known  as  Our 
Lady  of  the  Gumboil,  and  full  of  poisonously  acid 
paint;  or  over  the  Botticelli  (?),  or  Memling's 
Betrothal.  Whosoever  has  tarried  in  Bruges  will 
not  long  delay  before  this  well-executed  com 
position,  devoid  though  it  be  of  spiritual  atmos 
phere.  The  Diereck  Bouts  is  excellent,  and  the 
Cosma  Tura  very  attractive,  attribution  correct 
or  not.  That's  precisely  the  verdict  that  may  be 
passed  on  the  majority  of  the  Altman  collection. 
Many  of  its  pictures  are  beautiful  without  their 
resounding  names.  So  why  worry  over  precision 
in  attribution?  What  could  be  lovelier  than 

136 


BRAIN  AND   SOUL  AND   POCKETBOOK 

the  Gerard  David,  The  Christ  of  the  Miniature 
(in  case  B)?  One  must  go  to  Bruges  to  better 
it.  The  Mainardi,  the  Barend  Von  Orley,  the 
Lippi  (?),  the  Fra  Angelico  (?),  the  Verrocchio 
(?)  are  all  of  moment,  aside  from  their  ascrip 
tions.  The  portrait  of  a  Lady  by  Bartolommeo 
Montagna  is  a  specimen  of  Venetian  art  that, 
notwithstanding  its  modest  position,  is  engaging. 
The  Hans  Maler  I've  seen  elsewhere;  like  the 
Holbeins,  it  is  characteristic.  The  latter  are 
as  hard  as  nails,  with  wiry  silhouettes.  The 
Francia  and  Messina  portraits  are  vital. 

The  porcelains,  enamels,  furniture,  tapestries, 
and  miscellaneous  art  objects  would  take  a  year 
to  describe.  The  sculpture  is  generally  impres 
sive.  There  is  the  Houdon  Bather,  a  splendid 
marble,  full  of  elusive,  slippery  modelling,  with 
enough  accents  to  redeem  the  figure  from  sus 
picion  of  prettiness.  The  Clodion  terra-cotta 
was  formerly  entitled  The  Triumph  of  Pan,  in 
stead  of  the  conventional  Intoxication  of  Wine. 
(I  remember  it  at  the  Doucet  collection  sale  in 
Paris.)  It  represents  in  plastic  perfection  the 
culmination  of  ecstasy,  the  very  apotheosis  of 
passion,  withal,  in  terms  of  idealised  art.  The 
facture  is  marvellous.  Only  think  of  such  a 
gathering  of  names  as  Mina  da  Fiesole,  Germain 
Pilon,  Verrocchio  (?),  Sansovino,  Rossellino, 
Benedetto  da  Majano,  Luca  della  Robbia,  John 
of  Bologna,  Alessandro  Vittoria,  and  Donatello. 
I  am  not  sure  but  that  when  the  authoritative 
critical  appraisement  of  the  Altman  collection  is 

137 


finally  made,  his  sculptures  will  rank  the  rest. 
The  Donatello  Madonna,  the  Mino  Head  of  St. 
John  —  in  the  round  and  the  youthful  charm  of 
which  is  irresistible  —  the  Sansovino  Charity, 
and  the  Madonna  of  Robbia,  not  forgetting 
the  delicious  relief  of  the  Madonna  and  Child 
of  Rossellino,  these,  with  Pigalle's  Mercury 
and  the  Houdon  and  Clodion  examples  linger 
longer  in  my  memory  than  the  pictures  —  the 
provenance  of  which  need  concern  us  less 
than  the  consideration  of  their  intrinsic  artistic 
merit. 

If  you  alight  at  the  One  Hundred  and  Fifty- 
seventh  Street  Subway  station,  west  side,  and 
walk  down  a  block  you  will  come  upon  a  struc 
ture  of  Indiana  limestone,  of  an  architectural 
type  that  is  a  happy  compromise  of  classic  and 
romantic.  It  is  not  more  than  one  hundred  feet 
in  length,  and  in  depth  seventy  feet.  The 
building  stands  in  One  Hundred  and  Fifty-sixth 
Street,  west  of  Broadway,  in  Audubon  Park;  air 
and  sunshine  have  plenty  of  space  to  play  about 
its  severe  and  graceful  lines.  It  is  the  Hispanic 
Museum.  Mr.  Archer  M.  Huntington,  a  pro 
found  student  of  Spanish  archaeology,  literature, 
and  art,  has  brought  together  an  extraordinary 
collection  of  antiques,  manuscripts,  marbles, 
bronzes,  books,  Hispano-Moresque  ware,  medals, 
coins,  letters.  In  Europe  —  Madrid  for  example 
—  this  house  beautiful  would  be  an  objective 
shrine  for  passionate  pilgrims.  New  York  is  so 

138 


BRAIN  AND   SOUL  AND   POCKETBOOK 

interested  in  dancing  that  it  has  little  time  to 
visit  the  Hispanic  Museum  unless  a  sensation  is 
provided  such  as  the  impressionistic  pictures  of 
Sorolla. 

A  tiled  space  after  you  have  entered  by  the 
big  iron  gates  on  the  granite  stairs  gives  an  im 
posing  perspective.  The  attention  is  first  caught 
by  two  gigantic  repousse  bronze  doors  from 
Egypt,  of  the  fourteenth  century.  They  were 
found  by  Mr.  Huntington  at  Cairo,  and  were 
formerly  the  wings  of  a  door  on  the  mosque  of 
the  Mameluke  Sultan,  Barkuf,  whose  name  is 
inscribed  in  Arabic.  Tiles  and  mosaics  on  the 
walls  and  halls  evoke  dreams  of  the  Alhambra, 
of  Spain  when  it  was  most  beautiful  —  Moorish 
Spain.  If  one  may  dare  say  it,  the  interior  of 
the  museum  is  of  a  cosy  magnificence.  It  is  not 
large,  nor  yet  is  it  cramped.  The  spacing  and 
arrangement  of  the  various  objects  of  art  have 
been  planned  by  a  master  hand.  You  have  a 
sense  of  intimacy.  You  wish  to  linger,  to  "loaf 
and  invite  your  soul"  under  that  glassed  patio, 
from  which  you  may  peep  over  into  the  read 
ing-room  with  its  fifty  thousand  volumes.  A 
small  boy  in  buttons,  who  is  not  even  half 
Spanish,  offers  you  a  leather  plaque,  upon  which 
are  inscribed  the  names  of  the  masters  whose 
pictures  adorn  the  walls  —  some  thirty  odd.  It 
is  a  moment  to  rejoice.  New  York  has  never 
seen,  in  a  public  place,  such  a  gathering  of  Goyas 
and  El  Grecos,  while  the  two  Velasquezes,  won 
derful  examples,  are  claimed  by  certain  experts 

139 


BRAIN  AND   SOUL  AND   POCKETBOOK 

to  be  the  only  genuine  ones  in  America  by  the 
great  Spaniard. 

One  portrait  is  supposed  by  those  whose  judg 
ment  is  worthy  of  credence  to  be  that  of  a  cer 
tain  Cardinal  Pamfili,  or  Pamphili,  spoken  of 
by  Palomino.  (What  visions  of  cool  bosks  and 
sweet  meadows  are  evoked  by  the  old  name,  the 
Pamphili  gardens  at  Rome !)  Velasquez  painted 
the  heads  of  many  churchly  dignitaries  while 
in  Rome  —  the  Pope  and  several  cardinals. 
His  Innocent  X  in  the  Doria  Palace  once  seen 
will  never  vanish  from  the  secret  chambers  of 
the  brain.  The  present  portrait  is  that  of  a 
man  in  the  flower  of  his  age.  Though  wearing 
scarlet  cope  and  biretta  he  still  preserves  a  youth 
ful  air.  He  sports,  as  did  many  a  noble  priest 
of  those  days,  a  little  moustache.  His  is  a  sleek 
face.  The  eyes  suggest  a  shrewd  nature,  not 
easily  fathomed.  Its  depth  and  lustre,  the  solid 
modelling  of  the  head,  the  planes  of  the  face,  to 
assess  a  few  values,  are  all  masterly.  The  ex 
pression  is  both  powerful  and  delicate.  The 
figure  swims  in  space.  Viewed  from  the  oppo 
site  end  of  the  gallery,  you  feel  as  some  one  alive 
were  looking  at  you  through  an  aperture  framed 
in  gold.  Vitality,  nobility  in  characterisation, 
and  superb  paint  are  displayed  in  this  portrait. 
If  Velasquez  did  not  paint  it  —  and  such  au 
thorities  as  the  late  Sefior  de  Beruete  and  Pro 
fessor  Venturi  assert  that  without  the  peradven- 
ture  of  a  doubt  he  is  its  author  —  then  who  in 
the  name  of  El  Cid  was  its  creator?  Certainly 
140 


BRAIN  AND   SOUL  AND   POCKETBOOK 

a  glorious  artist.  It  would  be  too  cruel  to  com 
pare  it  with  the  alleged  Velasquezes  I  have  seen 
here.  It  has  quality,  that  indefinable  quality, 
like  unto  the  golden,  floating  tone  of  a  Stradi- 
varius  violin  (or  its  richly  varnished  belly). 

The  Granddaughter  Portrait  by  Velasquez 
comes  from  the  collection  of  the  late  Edouard 
Kann,  of  Paris,  and  is  a  life-size  bust  portrait 
of  a  sweetly  grave  little  girl.  Sefior  Beruete 
believes  her  to  represent  the  daughter  of  the 
painter  Mazo  and  his  wife  Francisca  Velasquez, 
therefore  a  granddaughter  of  Velasquez.  The 
tonalities  of  the  picture  are  subtly  beautiful, 
the  modelling  mysterious,  the  expression  vital 
and  singularly  child-like.  It  is  a  fitting  com 
panion  to  the  aristocratic  cardinal.  Of  the 
Grecos  there  is  a  brilliantly  coloured  Holy  Fam 
ily;  a  St.  Joseph,  said  to  be  the  portrait  of  the 
painter,  and  a  large  canvas  showing  Christ  with 
several  of  his  disciples.  The  most  magisterial  of 
the  El  Grecos  is  the  portrait  of  Cardinal  de 
Guevara,  from  the  former  Kann  collection.  A 
notable  work.  The  Goyas  are  unequal  but  in 
teresting.  One  depicts  the  horrors  of  war,  and  is 
probably  a  sketch  for  the  picture  at  the  Prado, 
Madrid.  We  know  it  through  the  etched  series, 
entitled  The  Horrors  of  War,  a  companion  set  to 
the  Caprichos.  Cruel,  violent,  exuberant,  it  is 
truly  Goyaesque.  So  is  its  neighbour,  a  bucolic 
bit.  The  portrait  of  the  Duchess  of  Alva, 
a  large  canvas,  shows  us  that  coquettish  dame 
pointing  to  her  feet,  where  the  artist  has 
141 


BRAIN  AND   SOUL  AND   POCKETBOOK 

scrawled  his  signature  in  the  dust.  It  is  mod 
ern  in  feeling,  as  modern  as  Zuloaga,  though 
a  trifle  wooden  in  the  articulation  of  the  wrists 
and  ankles.  The  Duke  of  Alva  (The  Bloody 
Duke),  is  by  Antonio  Moro  —  strongly  mas 
culine  in  feeling.  In  dull-coloured  armour,  car 
rying  across  his  arm  a  truncheon,  this  sinister 
nobleman  does  not  belie  his  fierce  reputation. 
What  power,  what  painting!  Note  the  tactile 
values  in  that  sceptre,  not  of  iron  but  of  wood; 
one  has  the  sense  of  lesser  weight  as  it  reposes 
on  the  steel-clad  left  arm  —  not  to  mention 
the  justness  of  the  rendered  texture.  General 
Forastero,  by  Goya,  hangs  on  the  same  wall,  and 
also  a  man's  portrait  by  Murillo.  The  general 
effect  at  the  other  end  of  the  gallery  is  brilliant. 
Carreno  de  Miranda's  Assumption  of  the  Virgin 
hangs  in  the  centre.  On  either  side  are  two 
Morales,  a  Valdes  Real,  and  a  rich-toned  Murillo. 
The  Miranda  might  have  been  painted  yester 
day,  so  clear  and  fresh  is  the  body  of  its  paint. 
On  the  two  long  walls,  south  and  north,  there 
are  portraits  by  Spanish  artists  —  an  excel 
lent  one  of  Philip  IV  —  and  altar-pieces  and 
ecclesiastical  subjects,  Hispano-Moresque  lustre 
ware,  sacred  vessels,  gold,  silver,  precious  stones, 
bronzes,  door-knockers,  iron-work,  coins  of  rare 
value.  Moorish,  Roman,  Carthaginian,  and 
Spanish  coins  may  be  seen  and  wondered  over, 
a  wonderment  that  finally  modulates  into  the 
theme  of  the  collector's  indomitable  patience 
and  sagacity.  Mr.  Huntington  is  an  authority 
142 


BRAIN  AND   SOUL  AND   POCKETBOOK 

on  Spanish  and  Moorish  coins.  He  has  written 
a  history  concerning  them.  And  the  collection 
of  old  books,  unique  maps,  and  manuscripts ! 
It  will  be  the  work  of  a  lifetime  to  catalogue 
the  riches  of  this  museum,  which,  excepting  the 
British  Museum,  has  no  rival.  Francis  Lathrop 
painted  in  monochrome  the  heads  that  are 
ranged  under  the  galleries;  also  two  capital 
copies  of  the  Velasquez  masterpieces  in  the 
Prado,  The  Maids  of  Honor  (Las  Meninas)  and 
The  Spinners  (Las  Hilanderas).  The  decora 
tions  throughout  are  warm  in  tone,  the  various 
carvings  tasteful.  Medallions  adorn  the  outer 
walls  with  appropriate  names  of  great  Spanish 
artists  and  thinkers.  Loyola  is  one,  a  significant 
indication  of  the  donor's  catholicity.  Flanking 
the  Hispanic  Museum  is  the  Numismatist  So 
ciety's  home. 

IV 

Of  the  theatres  there  is  no  end.  Neverthe 
less  true  drama  is  not  yet  lodged  here.  The 
heterogeneous  elements  that  make  up  our  the 
atre-going  public  demand  amusement  of  the 
most  elementary  variety  and  get  what  they  ask 
for. 

With  music  the  case  is  different.  We  have 
an  extraordinary  conductor,  an  Italian  born, 
and  only  one  orchestra  that  vies  with  the  Vienna 
Philharmonic  Society  orchestra;  of  course,  I  refer 
to  Toscanini  and  to  the  band  from  Boston,  the 
Higginson  veterans;  but  there  are  several  capital 

143 


BRAIN  AND   SOUL  AND   POCKETBOOK 

orchestras  in  the  city  and  plenty  of  minor  organ 
isations.  America  still  imports  its  music  and 
music-makers.  Thus  far  our  musical  genius  has 
found  fullest  expression  in  the  invention  or  the 
development  of  mechanical  toys,  pianos,  and 
the  like;  such  as  the  soulless  phonograph  with 
its  diabolical  concatenation  of  sounds  and  the 
malignant  "records"  of  famous  singers,  whose 
voices,  because  of  this  sinister  "sea  change," 
become  colourless,  rasping,  pinched,  metallic,  a 
very  caricature  of  the  original.  Edison  is  bet 
ter  known  now  than  Beethoven. 

The  most  characteristic  example  of  American 
music  is,  thus  far,  Edward  A.  MacDowell's 
Indian  Suite,  and  not  Antonin  Dvorak's  so- 
called  New  World  Symphony,  which  latter,  de 
spite  its  occasional  utilisation  of  negro  tunes, 
is  a  composition  more  Bohemian  in  colour  and 
character  than  American.  (Why  go  to  the 
negro  for  "American"  melody:  he  is  not  an 
aboriginal,  the  Indian  is;  besides,  the  negro  in 
America,  be  it  understood,  never  created  native 
music.  And  has  the  so-called  "African"  music 
exerted  anything  but  a  debasing  influence  ?) 
If  you  insist  on  the  African  element  then  Stephen 
Foster  and  Louis  Moreau  Gottschalk  are  the 
greatest  American  composers,  for  both  invented 
"negro"  tunes,  the  latter,  so-called  Creole  music. 

Our  greatest  American  novelist  still  lives  in 

England,  and  the  "great"  American  novel  will 

never  be  written  because  art  is  not  a  question  of 

magnitude,  but  of  intensity.     The  average  con- 

144 


ception  of  the  "great"  American  novel  is  a 
bundle  of  dialects.  But  the  human  soul  has 
no  dialect. 

With  painting  and  sculpture  the  case  is 
brighter.  We  have  a  native  school  of  land 
scape,  and  if  our  figure-painters  do  not  lead  in 
the  world's  procession  our  sculptors  make  a 
showing.  New  York  is  full  of  hideous  public 
statuary,  as  it  is  full  of  horrible  architecture,  but 
the  Sherman,  Nathan  Hale,  Farragut,  Hunt 
Memorial,  Ward's  Pilgrim,  Browne's  Washing 
ton  in  Union  Square  should  make  us  forget  the 
Dodge,  the  Cox,  and  other  attempts. 

I  confess  that  in  the  Mall  of  Central  Park 
there  is  a  nerve-destroying  aggregation.  But 
how  about  the  marble  abominations  of  the 
Siegesallee,  Berlin !  To  every  city  its  municipal 
bad  taste.  Paris  is  alone  the  home  of  outdoor 
statuary  that  does  not  offend  the  taste. 

On  the  other  hand,  some  of  our  churches 
soothe  the  eye.  St.  Patrick's  Cathedral  makes 
perfect  Gothic  music  in  moonlight  nights,  and 
the  very  bulk  of  the  St.  John  Cathedral  on  the 
Heights  is  imposing.  The  new  St.  Thomas,  de 
spite  its  newness,  pleases  the  eye  with  its  har 
monious  lines,  as  Trinity  does  by  its  age.  St. 
Paul's  Chapel,  Grace  Church,  old  St.  Mark's,  to 
mention  a  few  classic  examples,  are  show-places. 

If  you  search  for  the  soul  of  New  York  you 
must  not  go  to  its  market-place,  but  to  its 
churches;  therein  its  still  small  voice  may  be 
overheard.  Without  the  roar  is  mundane. 

US 


BRAIN  AND   SOUL  AND   POCKETBOOK 

I  might  have  included  the  newspaper  build 
ings  under  the  caption  of  "The  Brain  of  New 
York,"  but  just  now  there  seems  to  exist  such 
a  prejudice  against  "highbrows"  that  it  is  more 
prudent  not  to  place  "journalists"  in  that  cate 
gory.  But  the  newspaper  buildings  belong  to 
the  "sights"  of  the  town.  Anything  more 
architecturally  charming  than  the  Herald, 
dwarfed  as  it  is  by  its  giant  neighbours,  does 
not  exist  here,  and  of  the  Times  I  once  wrote 
—  having  a  vantage-point  then  in  upper  Mad 
ison  Avenue:  "To  enjoy  the  delicate  and  mas 
sive  drawing  of  the  Times  Building  as  etched 
against  a  southern  sky  —  now  ardent,  now  fire- 
tipped,  jewelled,  or  swimming  in  the  bewitching 
breath  of  a  summer's  day  —  one  must  study  it 
from  the  north.  A  silhouette  in  the  evening, 
and  often  like  a  child's  church  of  chalk  lighted 
at  Christmas,  it  flushes  rosy  in  the  morning, 
and  during  the  afternoon  the  repercussion  of  the 
sun  waves  drowns  it  in  an  incandescent  haze. 
The  fronds  of  stone  ranging  below  it  support 
this  bell-tower  —  for  it  is  of  the  true  Campanile 
order  from  afar  —  as  if  it  were  an  integral  part 
of  them.  It,  too,  spires  northward,  where  the 
park  blooms,  an  emerald  oblong.  On  its  pin 
nacle  the  city  below  wears  the  precise,  mapped- 
out  look  and  checkered  image  it  has  from  a  bal 
loon,  or  pinned  on  a  surveyor's  chart." 

As  to  the  Stock  Exchange,  Custom  House, 
Clearing  House,  Sub-Treasury,  and  Chamber  of 
Commerce  —  their  beauties  are  perennial. 
146 


BRAIN  AND   SOUL  AND   POCKETBOOK 

Of  the  little  things  to  be  seen  in  our  intimate 
New  York  I  might  make  a  book.  Not  always 
the  wide  waterways  or  vast  spaces  bring  to  the 
eye  such  ravishing  impressions  as  those  caught 
at  the  corner  of  some  alley  or  through  the  arch 
of  one  of  the  big  bridges.  There  is  Baxter 
Street.  There  is  Edgar  Street,  the  shortest 
street  in  the  city.  Or  there  is  Dutch  Street. 
And  there  is  Fletcher  Street.  Go  find  it  and  see 
the  Singer  Building  from  its  coign;  or  Brooklyn 
Bridge  from  Frankfort  Street;  or  Coenties  Slip; 
or  that  ever  delightful  part  of  New  Street  where 
it  ends  at  Marketfield  Street  and  the  Produce 
Exchange. 

There's  an  intimate  corner  for  you,  and  an 
other  is  just  off  the  narrowest  and  highest  street 
of  all  (I  hope  this  is  so !),  Exchange  Place,  east 
of  Broadway.  On  the  hottest  days  Exchange 
Place  seems  cooler  than  the  street,  as  you  crane 
your  neck  to  see  the  slit  of  blue  sky. 

Then,  if  craving  magnificent  dimensions,  there 
is  the  Grand  Central  Station,  the  largest  in  the 
world,  and  the  end  is  not  yet.  Wonderful  as  are 
its  proportions,  the  facade  in  Forty-second  Street 
is  disfigured  by  the  little  shops  beneath;  nor  does 
it  convey  the  majestic  power  of  the  Pennsylvania 
Railroad  Station,  to  my  mind  the  most  beautiful 
without  of  all  railway  stations  and  the  most 
imposing  within.  It  is  a  unicum;  the  Grand 
Central  Station  a  complex  of  buildings. 

I  have  seen  strange  sights.  An  American  flag 
flying  from  the  gilded  dome  of  an  East  Side 
synagogue ;  a  man  blocking  the  way  in  a  sudden 

147 


BRAIN  AND   SOUL  AND   POCKETBOOK 

little  street,  yet  a  shaft  of  sunshine  and  a  bit  of 
landscape  showing  through  him  so  bow-legged 
was  he;  a  cat  raising  a  litter  of  chickens  —  in 
a  Brooklyn  back  yard  as  seen  from  a  train;  a 
hen  in  Flatbush  that  crows  before  laying  eggs. 
I  once  saw  a  crowd  so  dense  that  City  Hall  Park 
was  impassable.  It  was  at  the  beginning  of  the 
war  when  the  city  was  charged  with  anticipation 
as  if  by  electricity.  I  tried  to  push  by,  but 
vainly.  It  was  in  front  of  the  Evening  Sun 
office,  and  finally  I  asked  the  policeman  the 
latest  news  from  Belgium.  I  thought  he  spied 
me  curiously.  "Look  for  yourself,"  he  lacon 
ically  replied.  I  did  and  saw  by  the  baseball 
score  that  the  Giants  were  not  in  the  lead. 

It  was  a  typical  summer-afternoon  crowd.  I 
hadn't  realised  the  happy  fund  of  indifference 
possessed  by  the  crowd.  Truly  happy  thus  to 
forget  —  in  a  game  —  the  tragedy  across  the 
water.  A  meeting  of  street  Salvationists  far 
ther  down  the  street  made  uncouth  sounds  like 
savages  pacifying  their  idol  —  all  alike  in  their 
worship  of  ugliness. 

The  old  saying,  "See  Naples  and  die!"  may 
be  replaced  by  "See  New  York  first!"  She 
may  be  enormously  vulgar,  and  the  genius  of 
her  is  enormous,  and  never  suggests  mediocrity. 
You  may  hate  or  love  her,  but  you  cannot  pass 
her  by;  and  if  Stendhal  were  alive  to-day  he 
would  rechristen  the  city  Cosmopolis,  the  nois 
iest  Cosmopolis  that  ever  existed,  but  also  the 
New  Cosmopolis,  the  most  versatile  city  on  our 
globe. 

148 


VIII 

CONEY  ISLAND 
I 

BY  DAY 

IT  was  a  poster  that  sent  me  to  Coney  Island 
again,  although  I  had  sworn  never  to  tread 
again  that  avenue  of  hideous  sights  and  sounds, 
had  taken  a  solemn  oath  to  that  effect  years  ago. 
But  that  poster !  Ah  !  if  these  advertising  men 
only  knew  how  their  signs  and  symbols  arouse 
human  passions  they  would  be  more  prudent  in 
giving  artists  full  swing  with  their  suggestion- 
breeding  brushes. 

This  is  what  I  saw  on  the  poster:  A  tall,  ener 
getic  band  conductor  waving  his  baton  over  a 
succulent  symphony  of  crabs,  lobsters,  fruit, 
fish,  corn,  cantaloups,  clams,  and  water-melons 
-  truly  a  pretty  combination,  for  the  over 
tones  are  Afro- American,  the  undertones  Asiatic 
cholera.  Nevertheless,  an  appealing  orchestra 
to  palates  jaded  by  city  restaurant  fare  and  the 
hot,  humid  streets.  I  was  in  haste  to  be  off.  I 
mentally  saw  that  gustatory  symphony.  I 
heard  its  colicky  music.  I  tasted  its  clambake 
instrumentation.  I  must  take  the  boat  at  once. 
149 


CONEY  ISLAND 

As  the  tall,  architectural  chimneys  at  the 
lower  end  of  the  Island  slowly  receded  I  noted 
the  waffle-like  effect  of  the  myriad  windows  set 
in  their  staring  walls.  Waffles!  Yes,  that  is 
the  new  note  in  American  architecture;  it  is  the 
very  soul  of  the  art.  Waffles !  This  discovery 
comforted  me  somewhat,  and  I  began  to  enjoy 
life  and  sought  for  a  fresh  thrill  by  gazing  steadily 
at  the  Brooklyn  shorescape. 

Perhaps  the  first  definite  impression  made 
amid  the  thousands  of  confusing,  beckoning, 
and  mutually  destructive  sights  as  one  comes 
up  the  harbour  is  Brooklyn  Bridge,  seen  across 
the  green  of  Governor's  Island.  The  woven 
wires  of  the  structure  seem  to  float;  no  water, 
except  that  in  the  immediate  foreground  of  the 
spectator,  suggests  the  notion  that  this  is  a 
bridge;  rather  is  it  a  fantastic  apparition  strung 
across  an  emerald  prairie,  a  huge  harp  ready 
for  the  fingers  of  some  monstrous  musician, 
whose  melodies  would  be  hurricane-like,  not 
aeolian.  The  illusion  vanishes  the  farther  down 
or  up  one  sails;  it  is  trapped  at  its  best  near 
Staten  Island. 

The  coast-line  of  Brooklyn  does  not  lend  itself 
to  optical  enchantment.  But  it  is  not  more 
depressing  than,  say,  the  docks  of  London  after 
you  leave  Blackfriars  Bridge  going  down  Green 
wich  way.  Brooklyn  is  more  cheerful  because 
of  the  greater  spaces  of  waterway,  because 
of  more  diversity  as  to  sky-line.  In  London 
the  heavens  seem  closer  to  earth,  the  sky 

.150 


CONEY   ISLAND 

not  as  far  away  as  ours.  High  buildings  are 
rare  along  the  Thames,  while  Brooklyn  boasts 
many.  The  time  is  not  long  since  the  Hotel 
Margaret  was  the  proud  monarch  of  all  it  sur 
veyed  across  the  harbour.  Now  it  has  numerous 
rivals.  They  are  beginning  to  string  down  the 
shore  and  run  a  race  with  the  church  spires  that 
gave  to  the  town  of  Beecher  and  Talmage  its 
nickname.  With  the  picturesque  villas  and  the 
old  fort,  the  interest  merges  into  the  strand, 
into  the  superior  beauties  of  Bath  Beach  and 
Norton  Point. 

The  same  old  iron  steamboats,  with  the  same 
old  band  of  itinerant  musicians,  arouse  mem 
ories.  They  still  play  Non  e  ver,  as  they  did  a 
quarter  of  a  century  ago.  And  more  memories 
when  the  Grand  Republic  passes  cityward,  its 
flags  and  pennants  flying,  the  venerable  steamer 
as  attractive-looking  as  ever;  dwarfed,  to  be 
sure,  since  the  advent  of  ocean  leviathans,  she 
still  makes  a  gallant  showing. 

Is  our  river-excursion  service  commensurate 
with  the  volume  of  its  business?  It  far  out 
shines  in  efficiency  and  in  the  size  of  its  craft 
the  Thames  or  the  tiny  boats  on  the  Seine. 
Nevertheless,  our  steamers  are  not  equal  to  the 
strain  put  upon  them;  they  are  old-fashioned, 
cramped,  and  with  mediocre  accommodations. 
They  are  crowded,  too,  beyond  the  danger-line. 
A  fire,  a  panic,  a  collision,  and  the  inherent  un- 
worthiness  of  most  of  the  excursion  boats  in  our 
.harbour  would  be  revealed  in  a  moment.  The 


CONEY  ISLAND 

great  god  Chance  is  the  patron  saint  of  pilots 
and  owners.  Votive  candles  in  abundance 
should  be  burned  before  his  image  by  grateful 
worshippers,  for  it  is  due  to  his  graces  that  we 
somehow  or  other  muddle  through  season  after 
season  without  serious  accidents.  But  when 
one  arrives  it  is  usually  in  the  category  of  the 
catastrophic. 

As  I  first  recall  Coney  Island,  one  could  walk 
on  a  wide,  clean,  shining  space  of  sand  from  the 
Point  to  the  Oriental  Hotel.  No  vile  barracks 
and  booths  snouted  their  noisome  features  to 
the  water's  edge.  There  was  no  Sea  Gate  in 
those  days,  and  the  top  of  the  Island  was  prac 
tically  barren  and  given  over  to  fishermen.  To 
day  the  villas  and  hotels  at  Sea  Gate  have  im 
proved  matters;  but  go  up  the  beach  a  bit,  and 
what  disillusionment  follows! 

From  where  the  Brighton  bathing  pavilion 
stands,  down  as  far  as  RavenhalPs,  is  the  cra 
ziest  collection  of  tumble-down  hovels  —  you 
can't  dignify  them  with  any  other  term  —  that 
ever  disgraced  a  beautiful  sea-view.  There  are 
exceptions:  the  Oriental  Hotel, — which  hasn't 
changed,  —  the  Brighton  Beach  Hotel,  the  several 
large  casinos  and  restaurants  clustering  about 
the  end  of  the  ocean  boulevard,  and  also  the 
municipal  bath-house,  a  building  worthy  of  its 
purpose.  I  may  have  omitted  a  few  others,  and 
I'm  duly  sorry  in  advance;  yet  do  I  cling  to 
my  belief  that  if  the  whole  horrible  aggregation 
of  shanties,  low  resorts,  shacks  masquerading 


CONEY  ISLAND 

as  hotels,  and  the  rest  were  swept  off  the  earth 
by  some  beneficent  visitation  of  Providence, 
the  thanksgivings  of  the  community  would  be  in 
order. 

This  sounds  selfish,  but  it's  not  a  question  of 
personal  feeling;  it  is  a  pestilential  fact  that  the 
municipal  authorities  tolerate  such  a  plague  — 
for  it  is  a  centre  of  moral  and  physical  infection 
—  on  the  very  heels  of  the  city.  This  rings  of 
humbug  "uplift,"  but  it  is  the  naked  truth. 
Privileges  usurped  from  the  public  are  granted 
to  a  lot  of  greedy  money-muckers  who  bam 
boozle  the  people.  The  poor,  more  than  the 
rich,  rob  the  poor. 

But  the  people,  the  poor  people  !  Must  they 
be  deprived  of  their  day's  outing,  of  the  inno 
cent,  idiotic  joys  of  dear,  dear  old  Coney?  You 
know  the  sentimental  cant  of  the  East  Side 
sociologist  and  the  friend  of  the  "peepul."  No, 
this  is  no  attempt  to  depreciate  the  enjoyment 
of  the  masses  and  classes  (the  latter  are  much 
given  to  visiting  the  Island  as  a  sort  of  vicious 
open-air  slumming  spot) ,  there  is  more  than  one 
centre  of  amusement  —  unlike  Sodom,  Coney 
Island  can  boast  at  least  ten  good  inhabitants 
-  but  they  only  serve  to  set  off  the  repulsive 
qualities  of  their  neighbours. 

I  know  that  you  can't  make  the  public  enjoy 
the  more  refined  pleasures  of  a  beach  free  from 
vulgarity  and  rapacious  beach-combers,  male 
and  female,  unless  it  so  wishes.  Even  mules 
will  not  drink  unless  thirsty.  The  Montessori 


CONEY  ISLAND 

method  applied  to  an  army  of  excursionists 
would  be  ludicrous;  it's  a  sufficient  infliction  on 
children.  In  a  word,  it  is  not  a  question  of  re 
striction  but  of  regulation;  decency,  good  taste, 
and  semibarbarism  should  not  be  allowed  to 
go  unchecked.  Coney  Island  to-day,  despite 
the  efficiency  of  the  police,  is  a  disgrace  to  our 
civilisation.  It  should  be  abolished  and  some 
thing  else  substituted. 

And  now,  having  abolished  the  eyesore  by  a 
mere  waving  of  my  wish-wand,  let  me  tell  you 
of  the  joys  I  experienced  after  I  had  landed  at 
the  Steeplechase  Park  pier  in  company  with 
some  hundreds  of  fellow  lunatics  of  all  ages  and 
conditions,  for  when  you  are  at  Coney  you  cast 
aside  your  hampering  reason  and  become  a  plain 
lunatic.  It  was  a  great  French  writer  who  ad 
vised  his  readers  to  make  of  themselves  beasts 
from  time  to  time,  to  kick  over  the  slow  and 
painful  step-ladder  of  moral  restraint  and  revert 
to  the  normal  animal  from  which  we  evolved. 
It  is  never  a  difficult  precept  to  follow,  although 
the  writer  didn't  mean  his  text  to  be  exactly  in 
terpreted  as  I  am  now  doing. 

After  the  species  of  straitjacket  that  we  wear 
in  every-day  life  is  removed  at  such  Saturnalia 
as  Coney  Island,  the  human  animal  emerges  in 
a  not  precisely  winning  guise.  He  and  she  and 
the  brats  are  a  mixture  that  sets  you  thinking 
over  the  idle  boast  that  our  century  is  the 
flowering  of  culture.  As  Gustave  Flaubert  says : 
"The  patriot  doesn't  always  smell  nice." 

154 


CONEY  ISLAND 

Again  you  think  —  cleanliness  is  greater  than 
godliness,  and  if  mankind  were  friendlier  to 
soap  this  old  globe  of  ours  would  be  a  sweeter 
place  to  live  on.  But  where  can  they  keep 
cleaner  than  at  the  seaside,  and  what  seaside  is 
so  cheap,  so  near  by  as  Coney  ?  Sound  and  un 
answerable  arguments.  The  man  with  the 
Brobdingnagian  mouth  who  salutes  you  from 
the  signs  as  you  enter  the  portal  of  Steeplechase 
would  smile  still  wider  if  you  attempted  to 
answer  them.  So  let  us  throw  logic  to  the  dogs 
and  simply  be  happy  because  we  are  alive,  be 
cause  the  wind  is  not  only  in  the  heather,  brother, 
but  because  the  smell  of  the  frankfurter  "dag" 
as  it  sizzles  over  the  fire  ascends  to  eager  nos 
trils  on  the  dock. 

The  fisherman  sits  line  in  hand  as  we  pass;  a 
sign  informs  that  there  are  twenty-five  thousand 
bathing-suits  to  hire,  and  we  listlessly  gaze  at  the 
hulk  of  the  only  American  vessel  captured  in  the 
war  with  Spain.  The  barkers  arouse  us.  We 
buy  a  string  of  parti-coloured  tickets.  They  are 
so  many  keys  that  unlock  to  us  the  magic  cham 
bers  of  this  paradise  of  secular  joys  and  terrors. 
You  may  swim  or  guzzle;  on  the  hard  backs  of 
iron  steeds,  to  the  accompaniment  of  bedlam 
music,  you  may  caracole  or  go  plunging  down 
perilous  declivities,  swinging  into  the  gloom  of 
sinister  tunnels  or,  perched  aloft,  be  the  envy 
of  small  boys. 

There  is  an  Italian  garden  where  basket 
parties  are  forbidden  —  the  only  spot  in  the  es- 

155 


CONEY  ISLAND 

tablishment  —  and  a  vast  hall  where,  as  if  prac 
tising  the  attitudes  and  steps  of  some  strange 
religious  cult,  youths  and  maidens  indulge  in 
simian  gestures  and  in  native  buffoonery.  Food, 
mountains  of  it,  is  cooking.  The  odour  ascends 
to  the  stars;  but  you  forget  as  in  a  monster 
wheel  human  beings  are  swung  in  a  giant  circle. 
Coasting  parties  clatter  by  or  else  are  shot 
down  a  chute  into  irritated  water.  Every  de 
vice  imaginable  by  which  man  may  be  separated 
from  his  dimes  without  adequate  return  is  in 
operation.  You  weigh  yourself  or  get  it  guessed ; 
you  go  into  funny  houses  —  oh,  the  mockery 
of  the  title !  —  and  later  are  tumbled  into  the 
open,  insulted,  mortified,  disgusted,  angry,  and 
—  laughing.  What  sights  you  have  seen  in 
that  prison-house,  what  gentlewomen  —  with 
shrill  voices  —  desperately  holding  on  to  their 
skirts  and  their  chewing-gum. 

What  I  can't  understand  is  the  lure  of  the 
Island  for  the  people  who  come.  Why,  after 
the  hot,  narrow,  noisy,  dirty  streets  of  the  city, 
do  these  same  people  crowd  into  the  narrower, 
hotter,  noisier,  dirtier,  wooden  alleys  of  Coney? 
Is  the  wretched,  Cheap  John  fair,  with  the 
ghastly  rubbish  for  a  sale,  the  magnet?  Or  is 
it  just  the  gregariousness  of  the  human  animal  ? 
They  leave  dirt  and  disorder  to  go  to  greater 
disorder  and  dirt.  The  sky  is  bluer,  but  they 
don't  look  at  the  sky;  clam  chowder  is  a  more 
agreeable  spectacle;  and  the  smacking  of  a 
thousand  lips  as  throats  gurgle  with  the  suspi- 

156 


CONEY  ISLAND 

cious  compound  is  welcome  to  the  ears  of  them 
that  pocket  the  cash. 

How's  that  for  a  rhythmic  cadence  after  the 
manner  of  Flaubert? 

The  late  Jacob  Riis  once  told  me  that  many 
times  he  despaired  at  the  apparent  hopelessness 
of  his  efforts  to  instil  the  love  of  cleanliness 
among  his  poor.  To  their  ancient  habits  these 
people  revert,  like  the  beast-folk  in  H.  G.  Wells's 
The  Island  of  Doctor  Moreau.  And  at  Coney 
Island  where  the  mob  is  thickest,  where  your 
ear-drums  are  shattered  by  steam-organs,  sheet- 
iron  bands,  and  the  yelling  of  barkers,  the 
"people"  hurry.  I  looked,  as  others  before  me 
have  looked,  for  Walt  Whitman's  "powerful 
uneducated  persons,"  but  in  vain.  By  way  of 
compensation  every  one  seemed  content. 

But  the  joylessness  of  it  all !  The  miserable 
children,  sick  from  their  tenements,  sit  on  dirty 
newspapers  spread  on  the  dirty  sand  and  in  the 
poisonous  blaze  of  the  sun  —  for  some  reason 
this  sun  is  supposed  to  kill  in  town  but  will  work 
wonders  at  the  beach.  What  kind  of  food  is 
swallowed  I  leave  to  your  imagination.  The 
place  should  be  called  Ptomaines  Beach.  Fam 
ily  parties  with  baskets  (ever  welcome)  are  bet 
ter  off;  they  know  what  they  swallow. 

I  looked  up  my  orchestra  of  sea  food  and 
found  it.  I  confess  I  enjoyed  its  crabbed  music. 
Once  indoors,  away  from  the  glare  and  roar, 
your  nerves  begin  to  simmer  and  your  throat 
craves  the  cool  of  an  element  not  washing  the 

157 


CONEY  ISLAND 

front  door  of  the  hotel.  Then  you  try  to  think. 
Impossible.  It  is  a  world  of  screams  and  hoot- 
ings. 

Farther  up  at  Brighton  matters  improve, 
though  wooden  sheds  disgrace  the  beach  and 
bar  people  from  its  use.  I  sighed  over  —  I 
always  do  —  the  thought  of  1888  and  the  pa 
vilion  at  Brighton  Beach  where  Anton  Seidl 
gave  us  ambrosial  music.  Coney  Island  was  as 
bad  as  it  is  to-day,  but  the  Seidl  music  furnished 
an  oasis  in  a  dreary  desert  of  vulgarity.  There 
were  some  New  Yorkers  alive  in  those  dear  but 
distant  days.  New  York  was  not  yet  an  open, 
noisy  trench;  nor  was  it  then  the  dumping- 
ground  of  the  cosmos.  However,  I  am  not  a 
pessimist,  and  if  I  rail  at  the  plague  spot,  Coney 
Island,  it  is  with  the  hope  that  some  day  it  will 
vanish  and  be  succeeded  by  pleasant  parks, 
trees,  sea-walls,  and  stone  walks.  This  madland 
of  lunatics,  who  must  go  up  in  the  air,  down  in 
the  earth,  who  must  have  clatter  and  dirt,  might 
be  relegated  elsewhither.  Certainly  people  don't 
go  to  Coney  for  the  sea  or  the  air  or  the  view. 

If  the  worthy  ladies  and  "uplifters"  of  inde 
terminate  sex  (chiefly  old  women  in  trousers) 
would  turn  their  attention  to  making  the  seaside 
beautiful,  or  if  not  beautiful  then  decent,  they 
would  justify  their  civic  existence.  Here  is 
where  the  busy  female,  with  or  without  a  ballot, 
can  come  in.  A  new  and  attractive  Coney 
Island  should  be  their  slogan.  But  the  public 
likes  to  be  fooled,  swindled  —  alas ! 

158 


CONEY  ISLAND 

Where  stood  the  old  Manhattan  Hotel  is 
now  a  comely  terrace  which,  when  the  trees  have 
grown,  will  be  a  garden  by  the  sea.  The  bath 
ing  pavilion  is  still  there  —  too  small  for  its 
clientele,  yet  cleaner  than  Brighton  and  less 
populated.  As  I  no  longer  bathe  at  the  beach, 
I  hold  no  brief  for  any  particular  location.  I 
am  stating  the  bald,  unflattering  facts. 

There  is  Brighton,  England,  as  an  example 
to  emulate.  What  a  beautiful  boulevard  by  the 
water  it  has  built,  so  satisfying  in  its  solidity 
and  spaciousness.  The  hotels  are  massive,  the 
view  unobstructed.  Ostend  and  Scheveningen, 
two  other  European  resorts,  are  also  examples 
for  the  heedless  and  conceited  public  administra 
tors  who  let  our  beaches  go  to  rack  and  ruin  or 
evade  the  issue  by  erecting  temporary  structures. 
That's  why  so  many  Americans  go  to  Europe 
in  the  summer.  They  get  something  for  their 
money. 

But  if  you  want  to  experience  the  " emotion 
of  multitude,"  there  is  no  spot  on  earth  for  the 
purpose  like  Coney  Island. 

II 

AT  NIGHT 

It  was  the  hottest  night  of  the  summer  at 
Coney  Island.  All  day  a  steaming  curtain  of 
mist  hid  the  sun  from  the  eyes  of  men  and 
women  and  children;  yet  proved  no  shield 

159 


CONEY  ISLAND 

against  the  blasting  heat.  Humidity  and  not 
the  sun-rays  had  been  the  enemy.  And  when 
a  claret-coloured  disk  showed  dully  through  the 
nacreous  vapours  just  before  setting  we  knew 
that  the  night  would  bring  little  respite  from 
the  horror  of  the  waking  hours.  It  was  a  time 
to  try  men's  nerves.  The  average  obligations 
of  life  had  faded  into  the  abyss  of  general  indif 
ference,  one  that  had  absorbed  the  exactions  of 
daily  behaviour  —  politeness,  order,  sobriety, 
and  decency.  Add  a  few  notches  upward  on 
the  thermometer,  and  mankind  soon  reverts  to 
the  habits  and  conditions  of  his  primitive  an 
cestors.  The  ape,  the  tiger,  and  the  jackal  in 
all  of  us  come  to  the  surface  with  shocking  ra 
pidity.  We  are,  in  a  reasonable  analysis,  the 
victims  of  our  environment,  the  slaves  of  tem 
perature.  Heat  and  cold  have  produced  the 
African  and  the  Laplander.  At  Coney  Island 
during  a  torrid  spell  we  are  very  near  the  soil; 
we  cast  to  the  winds  modesty,  prudence,  and 
dignity.  Then,  life  is  worth  living  only  when 
stripped  to  the  skin. 

Three  seasons  had  I  passed  without  a  visit  to 
this  astonishing  bedlam,  yet  I  found  the  place 
well-nigh  unrecognisable.  Knowing  old  Coney 
Island,  the  magnitude  of  its  changes  did  not  so 
much  amaze  and  terrify  me.  One  should  never 
be  amazed  in  America.  After  an  hour's  hasty 
survey,  Atlantic  City  seemed  a  normal  spot. 
Broad  stretches  of  board  walk,  long,  sweeping 
beaches,  space  to  turn  about  —  these  and  other 
1 60 


CONEY  ISLAND 

items  might  be  added.  But  at  Coney  Island 
the  cramped  positions  one  must  assume  to  stand 
or  move,  the  fierce  warfare  of  humanity  as  it 
forces  its  way  along  the  streets  or  into  the  crazy 
shows  —  surely  conceived  by  madmen  for  mad 
men  —  the  indescribable  and  hideous  symphony 
of  noise  running  the  gamut  from  shrill  steam- 
whistles  to  the  diapasonic  roar  of  machinery; 
decidedly  the  entire  place  produced  the  sensa 
tion  of  abnormality,  of  horrible  joys  grabbed  at 
by  a  savage  horde  of  barbarians,  incapable  of 
repose  even  in  their  moments  of  leisure.  Some 
one  has  said  that  the  Englishman  takes  his 
pleasures  sadly;  then  we  must  take  ours  by 
rude  assault.  All  Coney  Island  reminded  me 
of  a  disturbed  ant-heap,  the  human  ants  fero 
cious  in  their  efforts  to  make  confusion  thrice  con 
founded,  to  heap  up  horrors  of  sound  and  of  sight. 
There  must  be  in  every  one,  no  matter  how 
phlegmatic,  a  residuum  of  energy  which  may  boil 
over  when  some  exciting  event  knocks  at  the 
door  of  our  being.  It  is,  psychologists  assure 
us,  the  play-instinct  of  the  animal  in  us  that 
delights  in  games  innocent  and  dangerous.  If 
forty  thousand  people  assemble  to  see  a  game  of 
baseball,  how  many  more  would  gather  with 
feverish  gaiety  if  there  were  a  surety  of  the  um 
pire's  death  at  every  game  ?  The  Romans  daily 
witnessed  men  and  women  destroyed  in  the 
arena  of  their  circus  —  witnessed  it  with  a  sat 
isfaction  aesthetic  and  profound.  The  reason 
was  not  that  they  were  less  civilised  than  the 

161 


CONEY  ISLAND 

moderns,  but  only  more  frank.  Their  play- 
instinct  was  more  fully  developed  and  the  clas 
sical  world  was  not  hampered  by  our  moral 
prejudices. 

As  cruelty  is  proscribed  among  highly  civ 
ilised  nations  to-day  —  the  game  of  life  being 
so  vilely  cruel  that  the  arena  with  its  bulls  and 
tigers  is  unnecessary  —  our  play-instinct  finds 
vent  in  a  species  of  diversion  that  must  not  be 
examined  too  closely,  as  it  verges  perilously  on 
idiocy.  Coney  Island  is  only  another  name  for 
topsyturvydom.  There  the  true  becomes  the 
grotesque,  the  vision  of  a  maniac.  Else  why 
those  nerve-racking  entertainments,  ends  of  the 
world,  creations,  hells,  heavens,  fantastic  trips 
to  ugly  lands,  panoramas  of  sheer  madness, 
flights  through  the  air  in  boats,  through  water 
in  sleds,  on  the  earth  in  toy  trains !  Unreality 
is  as  greedily  craved  by  the  mob  as  alcohol  by 
the  dipsomaniac;  indeed,  the  jumbled  night 
mares  of  a  morphine  eater  are  actually  realised 
at  Luna  Park.  Every  angle  reveals  some  new 
horror.  Mechanical  waterfalls,  with  women  and 
children  racing  around  curving,  tumbling  floods ; 
elephants  tramping  ponderously  through  streets 
that  are  a  bewildering  muddle  of  many  nations, 
many  architectures;  deeds  of  Western  violence 
and  robbery,  illustrated  with  a  realism  that  is 
positively  enthralling;  Japanese  and  Irish,  Ger 
mans  and  Indians,  Hindus  and  Italians,  cats 
and  girls  and  ponies  and  —  the  list  sets  whirring 
the  wheels  of  the  biggest  of  dictionaries. 


CONEY  ISLAND 

In  Dreamland  there  is  a  white  tower  that 
might  rear  itself  in  Seville  and  cause  no  com 
ment.  (This  was  so  before  fire  destroyed  the 
place.)  Hemming  it  about  are  walls  of  mon 
strosities  —  laughable,  shocking,  sinister,  and 
desperately  depressing.  In  the  centre  flying 
boats  cleave  the  air;  from  the  top  of  a  crimson 
lighthouse  flat,  sled-like  barges  plunge  down  a 
liquid  railroad,  while  from  every  cavern  issue 
screams  of  tortured  and  delighted  humans  and 
the  hoarse  barking  of  men  with  megaphones. 
They  assault  your  ears  with  their  invitations, 
protestations,  and  blasphemies.  You  are  con 
jured  to  "go  to  Hell  —  gate";  you  are  singled 
out  by  some  brawny  individual  with  threaten 
ing  intonations  and  bade  enter  the  animal  show 
where  a  lion  or  a  tiger  is  warranted  to  claw  a 
keeper  at  least  once  a  day.  The  glare  is  ap 
palling,  the  sky  a  metallic  blue,  the  sun  a  slayer. 

And  then  the  innumerable  distractions  of 
the  animated  walks,  the  dwarfs  and  the  dogs, 
the  horses  and  the  miniature  railway.  Inside  the 
various  buildings  you  may  see  the  cosmos  in 
the  act  of  formation,  or  San  Francisco  destroyed 
by  fire  and  quake;  the  end  of  life,  organic  and 
inorganic,  is  displayed  for  a  modest  pittance; 
you  may  sleigh  in  Switzerland  or  take  a  lulling 
ride  in  Venetian  gondolas.  But  nothing  is  real. 
Doubtless  the  crowd  would  be  disappointed  by 
a  glimpse  of  the  real  Venice,  the  real  Switzer 
land,  the  real  hell,  the  real  heaven.  Everything 
is  the  reflection  of  a  cracked  mirror  held  in  the 


CONEY  ISLAND 

hand  of  the  clever  showman,  who,  knowing  us 
as  children  of  a  larger  growth,  compounds  his 
mess,  bizarre  and  ridiculous,  accordingly.  There 
is  little  need  to  ponder  the  whys  and  wherefores 
of  our  aberrancy.  Once  en  masse,  humanity 
sheds  its  civilisation  and  becomes  half  child, 
half  savage.  In  the  theatres  the  gentlest  are 
swayed  by  a  sort  of  mob  mania  and  delight  in 
scenes  of  cruelty  and  bloodshed  —  though  at 
home  the  sight  of  a  canary  with  a  broken  wing 
sets  stirring  in  us  tender  sympathy.  A  crowd 
seldom  reasons.  It  will  lynch  an  innocent  man 
or  glorify  a  scamp  politician  with  equal  facility. 
Hence  the  monstrous  debauch  of  the  fancy  at 
Coney  Island,  where  New  York  chases  its  chi 
mera  of  pleasure. 

Nevertheless,  with  all  its  perversion,  its  ob 
lique  image  of  life,  is  Coney  Island  much  madder 
than  the  Stock  Exchange,  the  prize-ring,  roller- 
skating,  a  fashionable  cotillion,  a  political  mass- 
meeting,  or  some  theatrical  performances  ?  Again 
I  must  bid  you  to  remember  that  everything 
is  relative;  that  the  morals  of  one  age  are  the 
crimes  of  another;  that  I  am,  comparatively 
speaking,  a  stranger  to  our  summer  cities  and 
perhaps  not  peculiarly  well  fitted  to  judge  of 
such  an  astounding  institution  as  Coney  Island. 

The  madness  converges  below  Brighton,  reach 
ing  its  apex  on  Surf  Avenue,  jammed  with  plea 
sure-seekers,  fringed  by  "fakers"  and  their  ut 
terly  abominable  wares.  Farther  up  the  beach 
order  reigns,  men  and  women  are  clothed  in 
164 


CONEY  ISLAND 

their  right  mind,  walk,  talk,  and  act  rationally. 
At  the  Oriental  dignity  prevails.  Few  people 
are  to  be  seen.  The  place  slumbers.  You  feel 
that  in  such  a  hotel  you  may  live  as  you  wish. 
Manhattan,  no  longer  queen  of  the  beaches,  has 
its  interest.  The  bathing  attracts.  The  wide 
porches  and  the  dining  couples  are  pleasing  to 
see.  A  theatre  there  is  for  those  to  whom  the 
ocean  is  not  a  stimulating  spectacle.  Walk 
farther.  We  reach  Brighton.  There  the  pot 
begins  to  bubble.  A  smaller  Coney  confronts 
you.  You  pass  on.  Stopping  before  what  was 
once  Anton  Seidl's  music  pavilion,  you  indulge, 
more  sadly  than  sentimentally,  in  memories  of 
those  evenings,  over  two  decades  ago,  when  the 
sound  of  the  waves  formed  a  background  for 
the  dead  master's  music-making  —  Beethoven 
and  Wagner  and  Liszt. 

Instead  of  Brunnhilde  and  her  sisters'  wild 
ride,  we  hear  the  wooden  horse  orchestrion 
screeching  "Meet Me  at  the  Church."  Move 
on?  Has  public  musical  taste  moved  with  the 
years  ?  Meet  me  at  the  madhouse !  We  reach 
the  Boulevard  and  note  its  agreeable  vastness. 
The  sun  has  set  and  the  world  is  become  sud 
denly  afire. 

Then  Coney  Island,  with  its  vulgarity,  its 
babble  and  tumult,  is  a  glorified  city  of  flame. 
But  don't  go  too  near  it;  your  wings  will  easily 
singe  on  the  broad  avenue  where  beer,  sausage, 
fruit,  pop-corn,  candy,  flapjacks,  green  corn,  and 
again  beer,  rule  the  appetites  of  the  multitude. 

165 


CONEY  ISLAND 

After  seeing  the  aerial  magic  of  that  great  pyro 
technic  artist  Pain,  a  man  who  could,  if  he  so 
desired,  create  a  new  species  of  art,  and  his  noc 
turnes  of  jewelled  fire,  you  wonder  why  the  entire 
beach  is  not  called  Fire  Island.  The  view  of 
Luna  Park  from  Sheepshead  Bay  suggests  a 
cemetery  of  fire,  the  tombs,  turrets,  and  towers 
illuminated,  and  mortuary  shafts  of  flame.  At 
Dreamland  the  little  lighthouse  is  a  scarlet  in 
candescence.  The  big  building  stands  a  daz 
zling  apparition  for  men  on  ships  and  steamers 
out  at  sea.  Everything  is  fretted  with  fire. 
Fire  delicately  etches  some  fairy  structure;  fire 
outlines  an  Oriental  gateway;  fire  runs  like  a 
musical  scale  through  many  octaves,  the  dark 
ness  crowding  it,  the  mist  blurring  it.  Fire  is 
the  god  of  Coney  Island  after  sundown,  and  fire 
was  its  god  this  night,  the  hottest  of  the  summer. 
At  ten  o'clock  the  crowds  had  not  abated. 
Noise  still  reigned  over  the  Bowery,  and  the 
cafes,  restaurants,  dens,  and  shows  were  full  of 
gabbling,  eating,  drinking,  cursing,  and  laugh 
ing  folk.  I  had  intended  to  return  either  to  my 
hotel  or  to  New  York,  but  the  heat  pinioned 
my  will.  In  company  with  thousands,  I  strolled 
the  beach  near  the  Boulevard.  An  amiable 
policeman  told  me  that  few  people  would  go 
back  to  the  city,  that,  hot  as  it  was  at  Coney, 
the  East  Side  was  more  stifling.  The  sight  of 
cars  coming  down  crowded  at  eleven  o'clock  and 
returning  half-full  at  midnight  determined  my 
plan  of  action.  I  went  to  my  hotel,  put  on  a 
166 


CONEY  ISLAND 

sweater  and  a  cap,  changed  a  bill  into  silver,  and 
with  a  stick  for  company  I  returned  to  the  West 
End.  There  were  more  people  than  before, 
though  it  was  nearly  one  o'clock  and  the  lights 
were  beginning  to  dim.  I  searched  for  the 
friendly  policeman,  but  instead  found  a  surly 
one,  who  warned  me  that  it  would  be  a  risk  to 
venture  upon  the  beach  if  I  had  a  watch  or 
money.  I  longed  for  a  Josiah  Flynt  who  would 
pilot  me  through  this  jungle  of  humanity.  The 
heat  was  depressing  and  mosquitoes  made  us 
miserable.  They  knew  me  for  a  fresh  comer 
and  exacted  a  sorry  toll  from  my  hands,  neck, 
and  face.  I  wavered  in  my  resolution  to  spend 
the  night  on  the  beach.  I  had  left  my  rake  at 
home,  and  as  I  am  not  a  socialist  I  could  not 
emulate  the  performances  of  the  " white  mice," 
as  the  East  Side  names  the  good,  well-dressed 
young  men  and  women  of  means  who  make 
sociological  calls  on  them,  note-books  in  their 
hands,  curiosity  in  their  eyes,  and  burning  en 
thusiasm  in  their  hearts. 

All  the  lights  of  the  pleasure  palaces  were  ex 
tinguished.  Across  at  Riccadonna's  there  was 
still  a  light,  and  peering  over  the  Brighton  pa 
vilion  there  was  a  pillar  of  luminosity  that  looked 
a  cross  between  a  corn-cob  and  a  thermometer 
afire.  I  sat  down  on  the  sand.  I  would  stay 
out  the  night.  And  then  I  began  to  look  about 
me.  In  Hyde  Park,  London,  I  had  seen  hun 
dreds  of  vagabonds  huddled  in  the  grass,  their 
clothes  mere  rags,  their  attitudes  those  of  death, 
167 


CONEY  ISLAND 

but  nothing  in  England  or  America  can  match 
what  I  saw  this  particular  night.  While  the 
poorer  classes  predominated,  there  was  little 
suggestion  of  abject  pauperism.  Many  seemed 
gay.  The  white  dresses  of  the  women  and 
children  relieved  the  sombre  masses  of  black 
men,  who,  though  coatless  for  the  most  part, 
made  black  splotches  on  the  sand.  In  serried 
array  they  lay;  there  was  no  order  in  their  po 
sition,  yet  a  short  distance  away  they  gave  the 
impression  of  an  army  at  rest.  The  entire 
beach  was  thick  with  humanity.  At  close 
range  it  resolved  itself  in  groups,  sweethearts  in 
pairs,  families  of  three  or  four,  six  or  seven, 
planted  close  together.  With  care,  hesitation, 
and  difficulty  I  navigated  around  these  islets  of 
flesh  and  blood.  Sometimes  I  stumbled  over  a 
foot  or  an  arm.  Once  I  kicked  a  head,  and  I 
was  cursed  many  times  and  vigorously  cursed. 
But  I  persisted.  Like  the  "white  mice,"  I  was 
there  to  see.  Policemen  plodded  through  the 
crowds,  and  if  there  was  undue  hilarity  warned 
the  offenders  in  a  low  voice.  But  it  was  im 
possible  for  such  a  large  body  of  people  to  be 
more  orderly,  more  decent.  I  determined  to 
prowl  down  the  lower  beach,  between  the 
Boulevard  and  Sea  Gate. 

My  sporting  instinct  came  to  the  surface. 
Here  was  game.  Not  in  the  immemorial  mob, 
joking  and  snoring,  shrieking  and  buzzing, 
would  I  find  what  I  sought.  I  tried  to  pass 
under  the  bathing-houses,  but  so  densely  packed 
168 


CONEY  ISLAND 

were  the  paths  that  I  was  threatened  by  a  dozen 
harsh  voices.  So  I  pursued  a  safer  way,  down 
Surf  Avenue.  It  was  still  filled  with  people  — 
men  and  women,  battered,  bleary,  drunk  or 
tired,  dragged  their  weary  paces,  regarding  each 
other  as  do  wolves,  ready  to  spring.  We  all 
felt  like  sticky  August  salt.  Reaching  the 
beach  again,  I  was  too  fatigued  to  walk  farther. 
I  propped  my  head  against  the  wooden  pillar  of 
an  old  bath-house  and  my  eyes  began  to  droop. 
I  heard  without  a  quiver  of  interest  the  sudden 
scream  of  a  woman  followed  by  ominous  bass 
laughter.  Some  one  plucked  a  banjo.  Dogs 
barked.  A  hymn  rose  on  the  hot  air.  Around 
me  it  was  like  a  battle-field  of  the  slain.  A 
curious  drone  was  in  the  air;  it  was  the  monster 
breathing.  A  muggy  moon  shone  intermittently 
over  us,  its  bleached  rays  painting  in  one  ghastly 
tone  the  upturned  faces  of  the  sleepers.  The 
stale,  sour,  rank  smell  of  wretched  mankind 
poisoned  the  atmosphere,  thick  with  sultry 
vapours.  I  wished  myself  home. 

Then  a  gentle  voice  said  —  the  accent  was 
slightly  foreign: 

"What  a  sight  the  poor  make  in  the  moon 
light!"  I  did  not  turn,  but  answered  that  I 
had  thought  that  same  thing.  The  voice  pro 
ceeded.  It  was  not  strong,  though  a  resonant 
barytone : 

"You  are  alone,  good  sir;    but  look  at  my 
brood,  and  don't  wonder  at  people  dying  with 
out  asking  the  world's  permission." 
169 


CONEY  ISLAND 

I  half  arose,  expecting  that  it  was  a  beggar 
who  addressed  me.  A  child  began  whimpering. 
I  saw  a  woman  on  her  side  holding  with  relaxed 
grasp  this  crying  infant  —  the  wail  was  hardly 
perceptible  above  the  swish  of  the  surf.  Near 
her  were  two  older  children.  The  man  who  had 
spoken  to  me  was  sitting,  his  head  plunged 
almost  between  his  knees,  his  skinny  hands  sup 
porting  his  head.  He  was  exceedingly  poor, 
wearing  only  a  ragged  shirt  and  trousers.  His 
head  was  large  and  curly  with  thick  hair.  He 
could  not  have  been  more  than  forty.  When  he 
lifted  his  head  his  eyes  in  the  moonshine  were 
like  two  red  cinders.  A  wild  beast  —  and  with 
a  gentle,  even  cultivated,  voice.  I  went  over 
to  him.  The  child  still  moaned  as  the  fingers 
of  the  exhausted  woman  opened  farther.  I 
forgot  sociology  and  wondered  if  here  was  a 
case  of  starvation  —  a  hungry  family  in  all  the 
Gargantuan  feast  of  Coney  Island.  The  idea 
was  horrible. 

"What's  the  matter,  Batiushka?"  I  asked, 
adopting  a  familiar  form  of  Russian  salutation. 
He  fell  on  his  knees. 

"Brother,"  he  panted,  "are  you  a  Russian? 
A  Jew?  Help  us.  We  have  not  eaten  since 
yesterday  morning."  I  confess  I  shuddered.  I 
confess  also  that  I  didn't  believe  him.  A  man, 
a  Jewish  man  with  a  family,  in  New  York  and 
starving!  New  York,  with  its  rich  charitable 
institutions !  And  this  fellow  tried  to  make  me 
think  that  he  needed  food;  that  his  wife  and 
170 


CONEY  ISLAND 

children  needed  food !  I  had  eaten  my  dinner 
at  the  Manhattan,  and  I  enjoyed  that  selfish 
credulity  which  an  able-bodied  gourmand  feels 
when  he  is  approached  by  some  one  who  has 
tasted  no  food  for  days. 

And  this  miserable  being  came  nearer  to  me, 
feebly,  supplicatingly.  His  eyes  were  like  red 
dots  in  the  head  of  a  famished  animal.  His  hot 
breath  issued  as  from  an  open  grave.  The 
child  sobbed  louder,  and  the  mother,  half  awake, 
clutched  it.  She  sat  up.  The  other  two  chil 
dren  arose,  alarmed,  silent.  It  was  too  much  for 
my  pampered  nerves.  Bidding  the  man  remain 
where  he  was,  I  ran  across  the  beach  to  the 
Bowery  and  into  a  little  saloon  full  of  half- 
drunken,  vicious  people.  Ten  minutes  later 
we  sat  at  an  improvised  supper  of  pretzels,  cold 
fish,  and  beer.  I  knew  this  family  wouldn't 
touch  anything  else.  Starvation  itself  would  not 
force  them  to  break  their  tribal  law.  I  have 
an  idea  that  I  was  thirsty  myself,  for  I  enjoyed 
the  flat  beer  and  I  enjoyed  the  subdued  ferocity 
with  which  the  family  ate  and  drank.  The 
baby  did  not  stir.  It  had  fallen  asleep.  The 
mother,  a  worn-out  woman,  still  young,  me 
chanically  put  the  food  into  her  mouth,  not 
looking  at  us,  not  speaking  to  the  two  girls. 
She  was  numbed  by  hunger  and  heat. 

"See  here,  what's  your  name?"  I  asked. 
"My  name,"  he  stammered,  "is  Hyman."  "I 
mean  your  family  name,"  I  demanded;  "Hy 
man  is  your  first  name."  He  gave  me  a  keen 
171 


CONEY  ISLAND 

glance.  Then  he  quietly  replied:  "You  are 
right.  My  full  name  is  Hy man  Levin. "  "  Have 
you  a  home  ?  "  I  pursued.  I  felt  my  importance. 
I  was  playing  the  role  of  benefactor,  and  what 
philanthropist,  great  or  small,  does  not  desire 
the  worth  of  his  money?  Besides,  it  is  good 
policy  to  cross-examine  a  starving  man.  He 
appreciates  your  interest  at  such  a  time.  (Oh, 
what  smiling  villains  are  we  all !) 

"  I  live  in  an  alley  near  Oliver  Street.  Usually 
we  go  to  the  recreation  pier  near  Peck  Slip,  but 
the  child  was  so  sick  that  I  came  down  here  last 
night."  "Last  night?"  "Yes,  I  pawned  my 
coat  to  get  the  car  fare." 

This  is  a  truthful  report  of  the  man's  conver 
sation.  He  was  out  of  work  —  sickness  —  and 
he  had  pawned,  piece  by  piece,  bit  by  bit,  every 
thing  in  the  house.  His  wife  went  to  the  pawn- 
house,  while  he,  scarcely  able  to  hold  up  his 
head,  watched  the  baby.  The  children  lived 
in  the  streets,  feeding  at  the  garbage  cans, 
thankful  for  such  a  chance.  Is  this  exaggera 
tion?  If  you  think  so,  then  you  don't  know 
your  own  city.  Such  things  happen  every  day. 
The  neighbours  were  kind,  especially  the  Irish. 
But  they,  too,  could  scarcely  boast  more  than 
one  meal  a  day.  Hyman  coughed;  he  evidently 
was  marked  for  the  death  of  a  consumptive. 
Yet  he  fought  on.  The  charities  were  available 
—  for  a  time.  But  funds  ran  low;  public  in 
terest  also  ran  low.  The  Levins  found  them 
selves  within  five  days  of  rent  time  in  their  room, 
172 


CONEY  ISLAND 

a  musty,  dirty  garret.  Life  from  heat  and  in 
sufficient  food  became  intolerable,  and,  half 
crazed  with  fever,  on  that  hot  Monday,  they 
contrived  to  reach  the  seashore.  With  only  a 
few  pennies,  yet  they  were  happier;  they  could 
at  least  breathe  fresh  air,  see  the  water.  But 
so  forbidding  was  the  appearance  of  this  un 
happy  family  that  they  were  warned  off  the 
board  walk  and  frightened  away  from  the  crowd 
of  pleasure-seekers.  We  do  not  care  to  see  these 
death's-heads  at  our  feasts.  Finally  they  found 
refuge  under  the  bath-house,  and  there  I  met 
them. 

Worse  remains.  When  the  dawn  came  up 
softly  like  the  vanguard  of  an  army  without 
banners  I  shook  the  sleeping  Hyman.  I  awoke 
the  woman.  I  had  heard  queer  sounds  in  the 
throat  of  the  child,  noises  like  water  slowly 
dripping  into  a  well.  Why  should  I  go  on? 
The  child  was  dead,  and  I  was  not  surprised. 
Nor  were  the  parents.  They  made  no  outcry, 
but  covered  the  little  thing  with  the  mother's 
old  pelisse.  Stunned  by  their  cumulative  mis 
fortunes,  this  death  was  accepted  with  the 
fatalism  of  a  Russian.  I  told  a  policeman  the 
story,  and  a  half- hour  later  the  entire  family  was 
carted  away  with  the  promise  that  they  would 
be  given  food  and  shelter. 

There  was  a  bitter  taste  in  my  mouth.  If  a 
poor  devil  of  a  tramp  or  a  working  man  had  met 
me  then  I  should  not  have  been  able  to  look 
either  one  in  the  eye.  Oh,  how  cheap  is  charity ! 

173 


CONEY  ISLAND 

The  silver  I  spent  did  not  relieve  the  Levins. 
They  had  scarcely  bade  me  good-bye,  so  op 
pressed  were  they  by  their  sorrow,  their  shame. 
They  must  have  hated  me.  The  man  was  not 
ignorant.  His  English  betrayed  a  reader.  He 
had  conversed  well  about  Gorky  and  Tolstoy,  had 
read  Karl  Marx,  and  knew  the  names  of  all  his 
saints  of  anarchy.  A  socialist  ?  I  do  not  know. 
I  only  know  that  your  bookish  theories  go  to 
smash  when  you  hear  a  man's  voice  thrill  with 
anguish.  A  pauper,  you  say,  a  lazy,  good-for- 
nothing?  Ay,  perhaps  he  was  —  perhaps  they 
all  are;  but  drunkard,  thief,  even  murderer, 
must  they  starve?  Anarchs  and  infidels?  So 
were  the  Americans  of  1776,  according  to  the 
English. 

Remember  what  Richard  Jeffries  wrote: 
"Food  and  drink,  roof  and  clothes  are  the  in 
alienable  right  of  every  child  born  into  the  light. 
If  the  world  does  not  provide  it  freely  —  not  as 
a  grudging  gift,  but  as  a  right,  as  a  son  of  the 
house  sits  down  to  breakfast  —  then  is  the 
world  mad.  ...  I  verily  believe  that  the  earth 
in  one  year  produces  enough  food  to  last  for 
thirty.  Why,  then,  have  we  not  enough?  .  .  . 
It  is  not  the  pauper  —  oh,  inexpressibly  wicked 
word !  —  it  is  the  well-to-do  who  are  the  criminal 
classes."  Grant  Allen  said  that  all  men  are 
born  free  and  unequal.  True.  But  should  they 
be  allowed  to  want  for  bread  ? 

Don't  ask  me  the  remedy.  I  am  neither  a 
professional  prophet  nor  a  socialist.  Don't 

174 


CONEY  ISLAND 

throw  socialism  at  my  head.  Ready-made 
prophylactics  smell  suspiciously.  The  "dismal 
science"  scares  me.  Before  the  fatal  words 
"unearned  increment"  I  retreat.  And  the 
socialist's  conception  of  the  state  approaches 
singularly  close  to  the  old  conception  of  mon 
archy.  I  know  that  there  are  many  Levins  in 
New  York,  of  many  nationalities.  Starve  in 
New  York,  the  abundant  city,  where  "God's 
in  the  world  to-day "  ?  Impossible !  cry  the 
sentimentalists.  I  didn't  believe  it,  either, 
until  I  met  the  Levins.  That  adventure  has 
cured  me  of  all  foolish  optimistic  boasting. 
I  have  told  the  story  plainly.  I  realised  of 
how  little  account  to  people  in  such  awful 
straits  is  the  clangour  of  contending  political 
parties.  Of  what  interest  to  a  man,  his  belly 
pinched  by  starvation,  whether  one  Jack  in 
office  is  ousted  by  another  Jack  who  desires  the 
place;  whether  this  one  is  President,  that  one 
is  governor?  A  flare  of  fireworks,  a  river  of 
beer,  on  the  East  Side  for  a  night,  and  the  people 
are  forgotten  by  their  masters.  It  has  been  so 
always;  for  eternity  it  will  endure.  Does  not 
Campanella's  sonnet  sing: 

The  people  is  a  beast  of  muddy  brain 

That  knows  not  its  own  strength,  and  therefore  stands 

Loaded  with  wood  and  stone; 

Its  own  are  all  things  between  earth  and  Heaven; 
But  this  it  knows  not,  and  if  one  arise 
To  tell  this  truth  it  kills  him  unforgiven. 

175 


CONEY  ISLAND 

Grunting,  growling,  spitting,  coughing,  the 
huge  army  of  thousands  began  in  maelstrom 
fashion  to  move  cityward.  Some  stopped  at 
the  half-way  house  of  whisky;  many  break 
fasted,  but  the  main  body  made  a  dash  for  the 
cars.  The  night  had  been  a  trying  one,  the  new 
day  did  not  promise ;  yet  it  was  a  new  day,  and 
with  it  a  flock  of  fresh  hopes  was  born.  The 
crowd  seemed  rested;  in  its  eyes  was  the  lust  of 
life,  and  it  was  absolutely  good-humoured.  I 
heard  a  vague  tale  about  a  man-hunt  during  the 
night  —  how  a  thief  had  been  chased  with 
stones  and  clubs  until,  reaching  Sea  Gate,  he 
had  boldly  plunged  into  the  water  and  disap 
peared.  His  hawk-like  features,  the  colour  of 
clay  from  fright,  had  impressed  the  old  man  who 
related  the  story.  In  return  I  told  the  Levins' 
heart-breaking  tale,  and  he  did  not  appear  much 
interested.  What  signified  to  all  those  strong, 
bustling  men  and  women  the  death  of  a  tiny 
girl  baby  —  dead  and  hardly  clad  in  a  wisp  of 
blackened  canvas? 

"Better  dead!"  The  mobs  thickened.  Po 
licemen  fought  them  into  line.  The  hot  sun 
arose,  in  company  with  the  penetrating  odours 
of  bad  coffee  and  greasy  crullers.  Another  day's 
labour  was  arrived.  Soon  would  appear  the  first 
detachment  of  women  and  children  sick  from  the 
night  in  the  city.  Soon  would  be  heard  the 
howling  of  the  fakers:  "  Go  to  Hell,  go  to  Hell  — 
gate!" 

I  felt  that  I  had  been  very  near  it,  that  I  had 
176 


CONEY  ISLAND 

seen  a  new  Coney  Island.  I  went  home,  after 
this,  the  most  miserable  night  of  my  life  —  mis 
erable  because  my  nerves  were  out  of  gear.  I 
was  once  more  the  normal,  selfish  man,  think 
ing  of  his  bed,  of  his  breakfast.  I  had,  of  course, 
quite  forgotten  the  Levins. 


177 


PART  II 

CERTAIN   EUROPEAN  CITIES 
BEFORE  THE  WAR 


VIENNA 


I  ALWAYS  know  when  I  am  in  Austria;  the 
coffee  is  much  better  than  the  watery,  flavour 
less  compound  you  are  offered  in  Germany. 
Perhaps  the  sharper  accents  of  the  Viennese 
cuisine  may  not  appeal  to  you  —  the  German 
cookery  by  comparison  is  colourless  —  but  the 
superiority  of  the  coffee  and  pastry  is  manifest. 

I  am  sure  this  is  not  a  happy  way  of  begin 
ning  to  sing  the  praises  of  Vienna,  the  magnifi 
cent;  but,  after  all,  sufficient  for  the  day  is  the 
Baedeker  thereof.  Open  that  invaluable  vol 
ume  penned  by  a  man  and  brother,  and  you  will 
find  sound  advice  as  to  seeing  Vienna  and  its 
environs  in  three  days,  more  or  less.  Now  I 
submit  that  is  not  the  way  to  do  it;  ten  years 
in  the  Austrian  capital  wouldn't  exhaust  its 
charms,  yet  as  most  travellers  allow  themselves 
about  a  week  or  ten  days,  it  is  best  to  follow  the 
advice  of  good  old  Br'er  Baedeker.  And  here 
I  leave  him,  for  I  am  essentially  a  rambler,  a 
prowler,  lazy,  leisurely  curious,  and  seldom 
sorry  when  it's  dinner  time.  (Mrs.  Ralph  Waldo 
Emerson  once  remarked  that  Thoreau  never 


VIENNA 

went  beyond  the  sound  of  the  dinner  horn,  and 
who  am  I  to  be  ashamed  of  a  similar  weakness  ?) 

Of  course,  the  proper  manner  of  writing  on 
such  a  resounding  theme  as  Vienna  would  be  to 
begin,  as  do  all  the  guides  and  guide-books,  with 
St.  Stephen's  Cathedral  (old  "Steffel,"  as  it  is 
called  by  the  natives)  for  the  central  point  of 
departure,  trailing  around  the  churches,  trapes 
ing  through  the  art  galleries,  and  finally  going 
to  the  Prater. 

You  recall  the  popular  lecturer,  the  spot-light, 
the  "ladies  and  gentlemen,  this  evening  we  pro 
pose  to  visit  the  city  on  the  blue  Danube.  To 
the  right  you  may  notice  the  spire  of  the  won- 
drously  beautiful  cathedral  erected  in  the  year" 
—  click,  and  the  screen  shows  you  the  church ! 
The  stomach  of  Vienna  first  interested  me,  not 
its  soul,  and  after  a  ride  around  the  city  in  the 
"saloon  carriage"  of  the  Municipal  Street  Rail 
way  line  I  started  out  to  investigate  the  places 
wherein  Vienna  eats  and  drinks.  Please  par 
don  this  unconventional  method.  Doesn't  a 
traveller  when  arriving  in  a  city  eat  and  drink 
before  he  goes  sightseeing  ? 

Let  me  hasten  to  tell  you  that  I  have  been  in 
Vienna  both  winter  and  summer.  The  latter 
season  is  incomparably  the  better  time  to  enjoy 
the  town,  but  if  you  haven't  been  there  in  win 
ter  you  only  know  Vienna  one-half. 

June  is  lovely.  December  more  brilliant, 
more  stimulating.  I  confess  at  the  outset  I  like 
the  Austrian  kitchen  better  than  the  German. 
182 


VIENNA 

Hungary  lends  her  paprika,  her  paprika-chicken, 
her  gulyas,  her  Esterhazy  roast,  and  Vienna 
has  her  bread,  her  real  Schnitzel,  various  stews, 
risi-bisi  (rice  and  peas),  suckling  pig,  splendid 
fish,  sausages,  rich  soups  —  Minestra,  an  Ital 
ian  variety  —  and  dumplings  in  a  dozen  shapes. 
And  Apfelstrudel !  And  Kaiserschmarn !  A  half 
hundred  delicious  desserts,  with  the  aroma  of 
coffee  as  an  aureole  at  the  close  of  the  meal  (or 
at  five  in  the  afternoon).  Nevertheless,  there  is 
seldom  repletion;  you  are  satisfied  with  the 
flavouring  and  do  not,  as  in  Germany,  eat,  eat, 
eat,  as  if  in  search  of  something  you  seldom  find. 

If  I  whispered  that  the  difference  between 
German  and  Austrian  cookery  depended  upon 
butter  and  the  judicious  use  of  the  humble 
onion  you  would,  perhaps,  smile.  Yet  is  it  so. 
The  onion  and  its  more  athletic  relative,  garlic, 
is  the  foundational  base  of  not  only  Austrian 
but  the  best  cuisines  in  the  world.  I  see  you 
hold  up  hands  of  horror,  nevertheless  a  nuance 
of  garlic  lends  many  a  meal  its  flavour.  (I  said 
a  nuance !)  It  is  the  chromatic  scale  in  the 
harmonies  of  taste.  Viennese  cooks  know  this, 
and  without  your  leave  employ  that  so-called 
offensive  vegetable,  the  onion,  so  skilfully  that 
you  eat  and  admire. 

Naturally  no  one  will  admit  this,  tourists  are 
so  scared  of  the  health-giving  product.  But  my 
mouth  still  waters  over  my  memories.  The  noble 
art  of  glutting  is  cultivated  in  all  Austria. 

I  strolled  from  Sacher's  on  the  Augustiner- 


VIENNA 

strasse,  where  the  menu  is  first-class,  high  in 
price,  the  wines  impeccable,  over  to  Hartmann's 
on  the  Ring.  It  is  across  the  street  from  the 
Grand  Hotel,  and  I'll  wager  there  is  no  restau 
rant  in  Vienna  where  one  hears  so  much  English 
(usually  American-English)  as  in  this  comfort 
able,  comparatively  cheap  establishment.  Its 
cuisine  is  Austrian  mixed  with  French.  The 
cooking  is  excellent  and  sets  a  pace.  Meissl 
and  Schadn's  on  the  Karntnerstrasse  is  typical 
Viennese,  with  its  suckling  pig,  risi-bisi,  pickled 
veal,  and  sauerkraut  (such  sublimated  sauer 
kraut),  to  be  had  at  far  from  high  prices.  The 
Stephankeller  (Cafe  de  1'Europe)  is  another 
meeting-ground  for  good  livers.  At  Cause's, 
the  Rother  Igel,  the  Rathhauskeller,  you  may 
taste  the  wines  of  the  country,  rather  too  thin 
and  shrewd  for  my  palate;  Voslau,  Gum- 
poldskirchen,  Nussberg,  Klosterneuberg,  Retz, 
Pfaffstadt,  Mailberg,  and  the  heavier  Dalmatian 
vintages.  As  I  stuck  to  my  favourite  beverage, 
Pilsner,  I  can  lay  no  claim  to  being  an  expert  on 
the  subject  of  the  wines;  furthermore,  my  pro 
nounced  taste  for  peppery,  highly  flavoured 
food  is  hardly  a  criterion  for  the  milder  palates 
of  visitors  from  abroad.  The  big  hotels  know 
this,  and  there  you  get  the  "international"  cook 
ing,  which  prevails  over  all  Europe,  even  in  the 
dining-cars,  a  something  that  belongs  to  no  na 
tion,  neither  French,  German,  nor  English  — 
cosmopolitan,  in  a  word.  There  are  exceptions 
in  Vienna;  for  example,  at  the  Bristol,  with  its 
184 


VIENNA 

French  chef,  you  fancy  yourself  in  Paris  at  Pail- 
lard's  —  that  is  to  say,  if  you  order  a  special 
dinner.  Otherwise  one  hotel  table  d'hote  is  like 
another:  neither  fish  nor  flesh,  nor  good  red 
herring. 

But  the  Pilsner  in  Vienna !  That  would  need 
a  complete  chapter.  While  it  is  not  so  super 
latively  fine  as  at  Prague,  with  that  supernal 
touch  which  never  can  be  elsewhere  duplicated, 
it  is  wonderful  enough,  though  I  noted  with 
dismay,  as  I  noted  in  Stuttgart,  Munich,  Dres 
den,  and  Berlin,  that  the  invasion  of  the  Amer 
ican  had  been  fatal  in  the  matter  of  tempera 
tures.  The  European  now  drinks  his  beer  cold, 
even  icy.  In  few  spots  could  I  find  the  precise 
degree  of  temperature  at  which  Pilsner  is  at  its 
bloomiest. 

I  do  not  think  it  necessary  here  to  allude  to 
the  numerous  beer  restaurants,  where  all  the 
world,  his  wife,  mother-in-law,  and  the  children 
eat  daily  and  sip  the  almost  non-alcoholic  dark 
and  light  brews.  I  speak  of  certain  semisacred 
houses  where  the  ritual  of  beer-drinking  is  ob 
served,  where  at  prescribed  hours  fanatics  meet 
and  solemnly  absorb  the  amber  brew.  Woe  to 
the  waiter  if  the  foam  is  not  of  the  creamiest! 
Woe  to  the  host  if  any  marked  variation  of  tem 
perature  is  felt ! 

In  a  little  old  house,  which  might  be  called 
"quaint,"  on  a  little  street  near  a  Greek  church, 
is  the  Reichenberger  or  Grieschenbeisl.  There 
the  best-kept  Pilsner  in  Vienna  may  be  found. 

185 


VIENNA 

There  also  many  artists,  actors,  musicians  as 
semble  of  nights,  and  a  merry  company  it  is. 
However,  Vienna  is  not  a  "late"  city,  as  is, 
for  example,  Berlin.  At  midnight  the  streets 
are  deserted  except  at  Carnival  time  or  New 
Year's  eve  —  last  New  Year's  eve  the  crush 
was  as  bad  as  on  Broadway. 

In  Berlin  I  have  seen  intoxicated  persons, 
seldom  in  Vienna  have  I  encountered  one.  The 
point  is  significant,  as  is  the  agreeable  cooking 
of  the  city.  Food  plays  a  greater  role  in  our 
psychology  than  our  thin-skinned  idealists  will 
admit.  Possibly  our  national  cooking  may  be 
the  bar  sinister  in  our  artistic  productivity,  for 
a  country  which  is  given  over  to  fanatics  and 
prudes  —  in  the  domain  of  eating  and  drinking 
—  will  never  give  birth  to  individual  art. 

II 

The  gayest  city  I  have  ever  lived  in  is  Vienna. 
Paris  is  feverish.  Paris  takes  its  pleasures  very 
much  as  does  New  York,  in  a  hurry,  as  if  to 
snatch  at  the  fugitive  moment  and  like  Faust 
cry:  "Stay!  Thou  art  so  fair."  Berlin,  I  found, 
was  too  self-conscious,  too  cultured  to  relax, 
while  Munich  is  a  trifle  too  soggy,  too  "wet." 
Vienna,  for  me,  hits  the  medium  of  gaiety  with 
out  hectic  symptoms  and  leisure  without  Prus 
sian  stiffness.  The  elements  of  the  Austrian  race 
are  heterogeneous;  the  Slavic  counts,  and  counts 
the  Magyar.  The  tongue  is  Germanic,  the  cul- 
186 


VIENNA 

ture  is,  minus  a  heavy  Teutonic  quality,  also 
Germanic;  there  is  a  lightness  in  the  moral 
atmosphere  that  might  be  called  Gallic. 

The  Viennese  man  is  an  optimist.  He  re 
gards  life  not  so  steadily,  or  as  a  whole,  but  as 
a  gay  fragment.  Clouds  gather,  the  storm 
breaks,  then  the  rain  stops  and  the  sun  floats 
once  more  in  the  blue.  Let  to-morrow  take 
care  of  itself,  to-day  we  go  to  the  Prater  and 
watch  the  wheels  go  round.  This  irresponsi 
bility  is  confined  to  no  class.  Whether  all  the 
folk  you  see  in  the  restaurants,  cafes,  and  gardens 
can  afford  to  spend  money  as  they  indubitably 
do,  I  cannot  pretend  to  know.  They  eat  and 
drink  the  best,  and,  as  a  native  said  to  me,  if  they 
were  without  a  roof  they  would  still  go  to  the  res 
taurants.  Well  fed,  with  good,  flavoured  food, 
therefore  eupeptic,  not  dyspeptic,  the  Viennese 
are  seemingly  contented;  they  look  so,  and  they 
are  always  cheerful. 

Their  tobacco  is  better  than  the  tobacco  of 
France  or  Germany  —  it  is  both  odorous  and 
cheap.  Coffee  is  the  magnet  late  in  the  after 
noon,  and  it  is  difficult  to  get  a  seat  after  five 
o'clock  in  any  of  the  numerous  places.  I  re 
member  one  cafe,  on  the  Karntnerstrasse,  which 
is  appropriately  called  the  Guckfenster,  from 
the  windows  of  which  you  may  stare  at  the 
passing  show.  Every  afternoon  I  went  there 
early  so  as  to  secure  my  favourite  seat,  and  there 
I  sipped  and  stared  and  stared  and  sipped,  and 
in  the  dolce  far  niente  I  marvelled  over  the  f util- 

187 


VIENNA 

ity  of  life,  especially  the  futility  of  American  life, 
its  hurry,  bustle,  money-making.  In  six  months 
I  told  myself  I  would  be  transformed  into  a 
joyous  looker-on  in  Vienna,  quite  oblivious  to 
the  ambitions  of  the  Western  world. 

Oh,  how  mistaken  I  was !  No  one  works 
harder  than  the  Vienna  business  man  and 
woman;  their  hours  are  at  least  a  third  longer 
than  the  hours  of  an  American,  yet  they  contrive 
so  to  space  them  that  they  appear  to  have  limit 
less  leisure.  How  do  they  do  it?  The  climate 
is  soft,  which  allows  of  open-air  life;  the  women 
work  more  than  the  men;  the  piety  of  the  peo 
ple  at  large  is  pronounced  —  the  churches  Sun 
day  morning  are  as  crowded  as  are  the  cafes 
Sunday  afternoon  —  there  is  unmistakable  pov 
erty,  nevertheless  the  mercurial  spirit  prevails 
everywhere. 

It  gives  Vienna  its  primal  charm,  it  hums  in 
the  air.  No  wonder  Johann  Strauss  composed 
his  music;  no  wonder  the  otherwise  ponderous 
Johannes  Brahms  preferred  this  spot  to  his  birth 
place,  Hamburg;  no  wonder  Beethoven  here 
wrote  the  scherzi  of  his  symphonies.  Vienna 
inspired  these  composfers,  as  it  inspired  Mozart 
and  Schubert.  Some  of  these  musicians  cursed 
the  frivolity  of  the  capital,  but  her  deep,  abiding 
charm  held  them  close  to  her. 

The  obverse  of  the  medal  is  this  same  frivolity. 
But  there  is  also  an  earnest  intellectual  and 
artistic  life.  In  one  week  last  winter  I  attended 
conferences  by  Gerhart  Hauptmann,  Georg 

188 


VIENNA 

Brandes  —  the  latter  dealt  with  Goethe  and 
Strindberg  —  and  I  heard  Moriz  Rosenthal, 
Eugen  d'Albert,  Godowsky,  and  the  Rose  quar 
tet,  and  attended  a  performance  by  the  greatest 
of  orchestras,  the  Vienna  Philharmonic,  under 
the  leadership  of  Felix  Weingartner,  who  gave 
a  reading  of  the  Brahms  fourth  symphony  (in 
E  minor),  which,  according  to  the  interpreta 
tions  of  most  conductors,  is  a  grey-in-grey, 
crabbed  pattern,  instead  of  the  glowing,  lumi 
nous  and  eloquently  expressive  masterpiece  it 
became  under  the  hands  of  Weingartner.  Not 
a  bad  record,  is  it,  for  the  city  on  the  brown 
and  turbid  Danube? 

Then  there  is  the  opera,  there  are  the  theatres, 
and,  to  jump  to  the  other  side  of  the  scale,  there 
are  the  medical  schools  and  surgeons  and  phy 
sicians  who  have  not  their  equal  anywhere. 
And  the  university  life. 

I  only  know  Vienna  superficially,  the  inner 
social  life  not  at  all,  but  to  my  inexperienced 
masculine  eyes  the  Vienna  woman  is  the  best 
dressed  in  the  world  after  the  American.  (Paris 
is,  of  course,  hors  concours.)  There,  again,  the 
touch  is  Gallic.  The  beauty  of  the  Viennese 
women  is  proverbial.  That  gipsy-like  colouring, 
hair,  and  eyes,  the  fresh  complexions,  the  gen 
eral  style  —  best  described  as  fesch  —  is  to  be 
found  in  no  place  but  Vienna.  The  men  dress 
like  Londoners,  are  more  particular  than  the 
Germans  in  the  cut  of  their  clothes,  the  colour  of 
their  ties,  and  the  set  of  their  silk  hats.  A  pros- 
189 


VIENNA 

perous,  prodigal,  vivacious  population,  hard  as 
nails  if  driving  a  bargain,  as  hospitable  as  can 
be  when  business  is  over  and  the  hour  of  recrea 
tion  is  at  hand:  1'heure  exquise,  not  of  absinthe, 
but  of  coffee.  And  then  there  is  Vienna,  the 
magnificent. 

Ill 

Vienna,  the  magnificent !  I  fear  the  approach 
of  the  dithyrambic.  Vienna  is  truly  the  city  of 
magnificent  distances;  not  even  Washington 
deserves  the  title  as  much.  Every  vista  has  its 
picture,  either  a  church,  a  monument,  a  palace, 
or  a  park.  You  range  and  range  and  seemingly 
never  exhaust  the  possibilities  of  the  city.  If 
you  pick  out  the  green  shade  of  the  Prater  on  a 
sunny  day  you  presently  find  yourself  in  the 
thick  of  life  at  the  Wiirstl  Prater,  or  Venedig  in 
Wien,  a  glorified  Coney  Island,  Atlantic  City, 
Crystal  Palace,  and  Vincennes  gingerbread  fair, 
without  either  ocean  or  board  walk.  But  gaiety 
prevails.  If  you  are  in  the  mood  historical  you 
have  a  field  to  work  that  is  practically  inex 
haustible.  ^Esthetic  cravings  are  satisfied  by 
the  superb  architecture,  the  ceaseless  music- 
making,  the  round  of  theatrical  novelties  —  not 
to  mention  the  artistic  acting  —  and  the  royal 
museum,  which  houses  so  many  old  masters. 

Of  modern  Viennese  painting  I  can't  say  so 
much ;  however,  tastes  differ.  I  prefer  the  sim 
plicities  of  Franz  Defregger  to  the  gorgeous 
190 


VIENNA 

arabesques  of  Hans  Makart.  The  mixture  of 
Celt,  Roman,  Slavic,  and  German  in  her  veins 
has  made  Austria  singularly  sensitive  to  foreign 
influence.  Under  the  Babenbergers  she  boasted 
a  Walther  von  der  Vogelweide,  and  such  a  dra 
matic  poet  as  Grillparzer  or  Anzengruber  can 
hardly  be  passed  by.  She  almost  starved 
Beethoven,  and  by  her  neglect  helped  Hugo 
Wolf,  the  composer,  into  madness.  If  you  are 
interested  in  the  modern  there  is  a  gallery  of 
young  talent,  largely  derivative,  I  admit,  but 
interesting.  Arthur  Schnitzler  —  whose  work 
has  thus  far  not  been  adequately  interpreted  in 
English  —  Hermann  Bahr,  Richard  Beer-Hoff 
man,  the  author  of  the  drama  Der  Graf  von 
Charolais,  the  clever  novelist,  Felix  Salten,  Hugo 
von  Hofmannsthal  (Loris),  the  poet  and  libret 
tist  of  several  Richard  Strauss  operas;  Stefan 
George,  poet,  are  a  few  names  I  recall;  and  then 
there  are  the  poet  J.  J.  David,  the  poet  and 
dramatist  Gliicksmann  of  the  Volkstheater, 
Karl  Schoenherr,  a  Tyrolese,  whose  drama 
stirred  all  Austria  (Glaube  und  Heimat),  and 
many  others.  The  special  graciousness  and 
charm  that  are  characteristic  of  Vienna  may  be 
found  best  reflected  in  the  writings  of  Arthur 
Schnitzler. 

For  the  sake  of  curiosity,  I  made  a  computa 
tion  of  the  number  of  fountains,  parks,  churches, 
etc.,  in  Vienna.  I  discovered  thirty-eight  foun 
tains,  imposing  ones,  I  need  hardly  remind  you. 
The  same  figures  cover  the  churches  of  every 
191 


VIENNA 

creed,  and  of  monuments  there  are  eighty,  pub 
lic  parks  thirty-nine,  and  I  forget  how  many 
palaces.  It  is  the  gigantic  scale  on  which  the  city 
is  planned  that  impresses.  London  and  Paris 
are  at  times  stuffy,  but  the  light  and  air  of 
Vienna  are  so  abundant  that  stuffiness  is  never 
experienced.  I  don't  particularly  admire  the 
architecture  of  the  residences;  banal  is  the 
word  that  best  describes  these  edifices,  not 
always  cheerful  to  gaze  upon.  There  are  too 
few  first-class  hotels;  Berlin  beats  all  Europe  in 
its  modern  hotels,  and  Vienna  is  far  behind 
Berlin  in  the  matter  of  apartments.  In  the 
suburbs  they  are  beginning  to  erect  them.  They 
are  not  as  comfortable,  as  commodious,  nor  so 
cheap  as  in  Berlin.  In  one  I  found  that  the 
steam  heat  never  sent  the  thermometer  above 
fifty  degrees  Fahrenheit,  and  despite  the  remon 
strances  of  the  tenants  the  landlord  was  obdu 
rate  in  his  refusal  of  more  steam  pressure.  But 
chilly  rooms,  ill-lighted,  are  not  confined  to 
Vienna;  London  is  as  bad  as  Paris,  and  Berlin 
is  the  most  comfortable  in  this  respect.  No 
doubt  Vienna  will  march  in  the  procession  later. 
In  the  parks  and  public  squares  you  see  stat 
ues  erected  to  the  memory  of  celebrated  men: 
Beethoven  (two),  Brahms,  Schubert,  Bruckner, 
Anzengruber,  Goethe,  Grillparzer,  Gutenberg, 
inventor  of  printing;  Robert  Hamerling,  the 
poet;  Josef  Haydn,  Theodore  Korner,  Lenau, 
poets;  Makart,  Schiller,  Mozart,  Strauss,  and 
Lanner  are  represented,  and  with  them  an  army 
192 


VIENNA 

of  royal  mediocrities  and  municipal  celebrities. 
Think  of  the  Central  Cemetery,  where  is  the 
empty  grave  of  Mozart;  where  are  the  remains 
of  Beethoven,  Gluck,  Franz  Schubert,  Johann 
Strauss,  near  his  friend  Brahms,  and  where  lie 
such  men  as  Von  Suppe,  Milloecker,  Bruckner, 
Herbeck,  Hugo  Wolf,  Makart,  Clement,  and 
the  pedagogue  Czerny!  Vienna  also  honours 
Hebbel  and  Lenau  in  an  appropriate  manner. 
There  is  a  Lisztgasse,  named  after  the  Hunga 
rian  composer,  and  it  may  be  remembered  that 
it  was  in  Vienna  that  the  youthful  Chopin  won 
his  first  triumphs  outside  of  provincial  Warsaw. 
There  is  a  Beethovengang  up  on  the  Kahlen- 
berg,  outside  of  the  city,  a  shady  walk  as  you 
ascend  by  the  Schreiberbach,  in  which  Bee 
thoven  often  strolled,  hatless,  singing  to  himself 
the  motives  he  was  weaving  in  his  skull.  The 
Viennese  of  his  days  pronounced  him  half  mad. 
Perhaps  he  was,  but  he  was  also  Beethoven. 
From  the  famous  Karl  Goldmark,  the  most  ven 
erable  of  Austrian  composers  (since  dead,  1915), 
to  the  precocious  composer,  Erich  Korngold, 
the  chain  of  active  musical  effort  is  unbroken. 
Vienna  is  very  musical,  although  I  care  less  for 
its  opera-house  than  I  did  in  the  days  when 
Mahler  and  Weingartner  reigned. 

Instead  of  beginning  a  chant  royal  of  admira 
tion  for  the  cathedral,  which  is  the  "star"  of 
the  sacerdotal  architecture  in  Vienna,  I  prefer 
to  speak  of  the  Karlskirche  on  the  Karlsplatz, 
possibly  because  its  pompous  splendour  and  com- 

193 


VIENNA 

manding  position  impress  one  more  than  the 
cathedral,  too  closely  besieged  by  surrounding 
buildings.  There  can  be  no  comparisons  as  to 
interiors  —  the  miraculous  altars  and  pulpits  of 
the  cathedral  bear  off  all  honours,  and  while  the 
lace-like  spires  of  the  Votive  Church  are  more 
attractive  than  the  Karl's  Church,  the  latter  has 
an  exotic  semi-Asiatic  exterior  that  fairly  rivets 
the  eye.  It  is  named  after  its  donor,  the  Em 
peror  Charles  VI,  and  is  a  notable  example  of 
German  baroque.  It  was  erected  1721-6,  in 
commemoration  of  the  extermination  of  the 
plague  of  1716.  There  is  an  oval  cupola;  spiral- 
shaped  columns  flank  the  main  facade.  They 
are  ornamented  with  basso-relievos  and  lantern- 
crowned.  A  lunar-shaped  portico.  The  reliefs 
on  the  Trojan  pillars  show  scenes  from  the  life 
of  St.  Carlo  Borromeo  by  Mader  and  Mattielli. 
An  imperial  circle  crowns  them.  Low  bell- 
towers  terminate  on  either  side  of  the  facade, 
which  form  a  vaulted  entrance  to  the  interior. 
There  is  a  great  marble  altar  with  a  statue  of 
Borromeo.  The  frescoes  are  distinguished. 

I  am  not  in  the  least  tempted  by  the  desire  to 
tell  you  that  Vienna  was  founded  before  the 
Christian  era  and  was  known  during  the  first  cen 
tury  A.  D.  as  Vindobona,  or  that  Marcus  Aure- 
lius  is  said  to  have  died  there.  Ah,  these  wise 
old  guide-books !  —  but  I  may  dare  to  intimate 
that  the  present  Vienna  owes  most  of  its  munici 
pal  magnificence  to  the  present  Hapsburg,  the 
beloved  Kaiser,  who  mounted  the  throne  in  1848, 

.194 


VIENNA 

Franz  Joseph  I.  (He  at  the  present  writing  still 
smokes  the  long  rat- tail  cigars  with  a  strong  tang 
and  drinks  his  glass  of  Pilsner  daily.)  He  prac 
tically  rebuilt  the  city. 

In  the  Neuer  Markt  stands  the  old  church  of 
the  Capuchins,  Maria  zu  den  Engeln,  and  its 
mortuary  vaults  hold  much  that  is  dear  to  the 
old  Emperor:  his  murdered  empress,  Elizabeth; 
his  ill-fated  son,  the  Crown  Prince  Rodolph;  the 
unfortunate  Maximilian,  once  Emperor  of  Mex 
ico,  betrayed  by  the  Emperor  of  the  French, 
Napoleon  III  —  in  whose  veins  no  Bonaparte 
blood  flowed  —  also  the  tomb  of  the  Duke  of 
Reichstadt;  a  tablet  to  the  memory  of  Peter 
Marcus  Avenarius ;  and  the  sarcophagus  of  the 
Empress  Maria  Theresa.  But  tombs  sadden; 
I  prefer  the  light,  and  let  us  go  out  into  the  an 
imated  highways;  let  us  go  through  the  thriv 
ing  Graben,  the  high-water  mark  of  Viennese 
business  streets,  and  if  I  pause  before  some  bril 
liantly  lighted  cafe,  arrested  by  the  vision  of 
pretty  girls,  the  majority  smoking  innocuous 
cigarettes,  don't  blame  me.  All  said  and  done, 
I  am  only  an  American  avid  of  new  sights  and 
sounds,  not  to  speak  of  new  faces. 

IV 

And  how  about  that  famous  walk?  Isn't 
time  to  take  it?  Well,  you  start  from  the  Step- 
phanplatz  and  you  see  the  Stock  im  Eisen  (a 
trunk  of  a  tree  studded  with  nails),  said  to  mark 

195 


VIENNA 

the  spot  to  which  once  upon  a  time  the  Vienna 
forest  (Wiener  Wald),  extended;  it  is  enclosed 
in  a  niche  to  which,  so  legend  hath  it,  all  jour 
neymen  locksmiths  paid  a  visit  before  their 
Wander jahre  and  drove  a  nail  into  the  tree  to 
spite  the  devil. 

On  our  way  we  pass  the  Mozarthof ,  a  building 
erected  in  1848  on  the  site  of  the  house  where 
Mozart  died.  The  glorious  cathedral,  cele 
brated  in  picture  and  prose,  need  not  be  here 
described.  Nor  the  Graben.  In  the  Hof  are 
the  War  Office,  the  Credit  Institute  for  Trade 
and  Commerce,  the  Radetzky  monument  —  do 
you  remember  in  your  childish  years  the  stirring 
little  Radetzky  march,  by  the  elder  Strauss? 
It  still  tinkles  in  my  ears  to  the  tonality  of  D 
major.  We  see  the  palace  of  Count  Harrach, 
the  Scots  Church,  the  fountain:  then,  through 
the  Herrengasse,  with  its  many  public  buildings, 
we  achieve  the  imperial  palace,  the  Hofburg  — 
two  monumental  fountains,  past  the  gateway 
to  the  Franzensplatz. 

Another  big  monument.  A  military  band  is 
playing.  A  fine  rain  is  falling,  but  the  place  is 
black  with  people.  We  see  the  Rathhaus,  the 
museums,  the  House  of  Parliament;  we  go  to 
the  Maximilianplatz  and  admire  the  Votive 
Church;  look  at  the  monument  and  the  Stock 
Exchange  and  the  university;  then  we  stand 
amazed  before  the  majestic  proportions  of  the 
Hofburg  Theater,  whose  entrance  and  stairway 
are  the  finest  in  Europe;  admire  the  spacious 
196 


VIENNA 

Volksgarten,  note  the  monument  to  the  Empress 
Elizabeth,  past  the  Volkstheater  to  the  Burg- 
ring,  with  the  pair  of  imperial  museums,  the 
Maria  Theresa  memorial,  as  far  as  the  Opern- 
ring,  on  the  right  the  Schillerplatz  (Academy 
of  Fine  Arts,  full  of  canvases);  opposite  the 
Goethe  statue,  a  stout,  mature  gentleman  in  a 
badly  fitting  frock  coat,  and  the  opera-house,  a 
very  imposing  structure.  Continuing  along  the 
Karntnerring  through  the  Kiinstlergasse  we  pass 
the  home  of  the  Musikverein  and  the  Kiinstler- 
haus  on  the  Karlsplatz,  which  also  holds  the 
Polytechnic  School;  the  Brahms  monument  is 
worth  while  studying;  then  you  go  across  the 
Schwarzenbergplatz,  where  stands  the  palace  of 
that  name,  to  the  Kolowratring  —  Vienna  topo 
graphically  is  like  a  circular  saw  —  to  the  city 
park,  with  its  numerous  monuments,  handsome 
Kursalon,  and  well-laid-out  walks,  back  to  the 
Kaiser  Wilhelmring,  where  there  are  palaces, 
and  on  to  the  Stubenring,  a  museum  of  art  and 
industry.  As  for  the  post-office,  the  Chamber 
of  Commerce,  the  bridges  crossing  the  arm  of 
the  Danube,  the  Tegetthoff  monument,  the 
Rotunda  in  the  Prater,  and  the  pleasant  trip  to 
the  imperial  palace  of  Schonbrunn  —  these  are 
subjects  that  cannot  be  seen,  much  less  dis 
cussed,  in  a  day. 

One  thing  is  certain  —  the  surroundings  of 

Vienna  are  particularly  beautiful,  whether  at 

Semmering    or    Baden,    the    Klosternburg    or 

Grinzing,  the  Kahlenburg,  Leopoldsburg,  Mod- 

197 


VIENNA 

ling,  Laxenburg  at  Franzenberg,  or  Mariazell. 
And  how  the  town  mice  do  visit  their  kinsmen 
in  the  country  when  the  weather  is  fair !  And 
the  Prater  has  only  one  rival  in  Europe  as  a 
driving  resort,  the  Bois  de  Boulogne.  Among 
the  private  art  collections,  that  of  the  Prince 
Liechtenstein  is  the  most  celebrated.  There  is 
a  great  Frans  Hals,  the  portrait  of  Willem  van 
Huythuysen,  and  Rubenses,  Rembrandts,  and 
Van  Dycks  of  prime  quality.  Count  Harrach  has 
an  excellent  collection;  also  Count  Schoborn,  and 
in  Count  Czernin's  palace  I  found  the  greatest 
Vermeer,  said  to  be  the  painter's  atelier  with  the 
portrait  of  his  wife  and  himself. 

In  the  Albertina,  the  library  of  Archduke 
Albert,  there  are  fifty  thousand  volumes,  an  ex 
traordinary  collection  of  drawings  and  engrav 
ings  (autograph  drawings  by  Diirer  and  Raphael, 
the  Green  Passion  by  the  Nuremberg  master), 
and  two  hundred  thousand  copperplates,  in 
which  is  the  finest  work  of  Marc  Antonio  Rai- 
mondi.  I  only  mention  these  treasures,  not  to 
emulate  the  catalogues  but  because  I  saw  them 
and  admired.  In  the  modern  gallery  I  didn't 
find  much  that  I  liked,  except  a  grand  Van  Gogh. 
There  are  complete  collections  of  Egyptian 
antiquities  and  the  Imperial  Art  History  Mu 
seum.  They  must  detain  us.  Also  a  Museum 
of  Weapons  and  Armour. 

In  the  picture-gallery  of  the  Imperial  Museum 
there  are  nine  authentic  canvases  by  Velasquez, 
a  Madonna  by  Raphael  (his  Florentine  period), 
198 


VIENNA 

numerous  early  Italian  masters,  Giorgione's 
Geometricians,  Diirer's  masterpiece  The  Trinity, 
and  some  of  the  best  Holbeins  I  ever  saw  (por 
trait  of  Derick  Tybis);  the  Cranachs  are  dis 
tinguished,  while  Rubens  and  Van  Dyck  are 
abundantly  represented.  The  old  masters  of 
the  Netherlands,  Italy,  and  elsewhere  are  of  the 
best  quality.  If  you  made  a  trip  to  Vienna  only 
to  see  its  art  treasures  you  would  not  be  wasting 
your  time.  For  me  Count  Czernin's  Vermeer 
will  ever  prove  a  lodestone. 

I  have  only  skimmed  the  surface.  Instead 
of  spending  all  your  vacation  in  Berlin  or  Paris 
or  London,  take  the  Oriental  express  to  Vienna 
and  enjoy  that  glorious  city.  Besides,  Budapest 
is  but  five  hours  down  the  Danube,  and  while 
I  never  met  a  Viennese  who  was  enthusiastic 
over  Hungary,  its  capital  deserves  a  visit.  Of 
all  the  European  cities  (after  New  York,  if  I 
may  be  permitted  to  perpetrate  a  mild  Celtic 
bull,  for  New  York  is  becoming  more  European 
than  Europe)  I  best  like  Vienna,  the  magnificent. 


II 

PRAGUE 

WHEN  the  Bohemian  composer,  the  late  Dr. 
Antonin  Dvorak,  with  the  much-accented  name, 
was  director  of  the  National  Conservatory  two 
decades  ago,  I  often  talked  with  him  about  his 
native  land;  above  all,  of  its  music.  For 
Dvorak  there  was  a  musical  god,  and  he  was 
Bedrich  Smetana;  Bohemia's  greatest  musician, 
the  composer  of  the  opera  Dalibor,  of  the  string 
quartet  Aus  Meinem  Leben,  of  many  songs  and 
symphonies. 

One  work  of  his  had  always  piqued  my  ad 
miration,  a  symphonic  poem,  with  several  sec 
tions,  one  called  Vltava  —  the  Bohemian  name 
for  the  river  Moldau,  which  winds  its  shining 
length  through  the  city  of  Prague;  another 
Vysehrad,  the  name  of  the  ancient  fortress  in 
the  same  place. 

But  Vltava  caught  my  ear.  I  remember  ask 
ing  Dr.  Dvorak  to  pronounce  it  for  me,  which  he 
willingly  did,  as  he  disliked  his  beloved  river 
to  bear  the  heavy  Teutonic  appellation  of  Mol 
dau.  Like  the  majoritv  of  his  countrymen,  the 
200 


PRAGUE 

composer  of  the  New  World  Symphony  was  not 
enthusiastic  on  the  subject  of  the  Germans. 
There  is  a  reason  for  this  antipathy,  as  we  shall 
later  see. 

The  music  of  Smetana  for  me  was  merged  in 
that  blessed  word  Vltava,  surely  as  blessed  as 
the  old  lady's  Mesopotamia,  or  as  was  the  Sus- 
quehanna  for  Robert  Louis  Stevenson. 

And  from  sounding  Vltava  to  myself  I  longed 
to  see  the  precious  river  and  the  historical  city 
of  Prague,  built  on  both  its  banks.  I  often 
sought  a  verbal  setting  for  Prague :  Prague,  the 
picturesque;  poetic  Prague;  but  after  I  had  lived 
there  I  found  the  precise  combination  —  Prague, 
the  dramatic. 

Prague  is  the  most  original  city  in  Europe, 
not  perhaps  so  startling  or  so  melodramatic  as 
Toledo  in  Spain,  yet  more  original;  and  that  it 
has  preserved  this  originality  is  remarkable,  if 
you  consider  that  pretty,  placid,  modern  Dres 
den  is  only  four  hours  away,  and  farther  down 
the  map  lies  Vienna. 

Now,  Toledo  is  isolated.  Many  travellers  go 
to  Madrid  and  Seville,  but  do  not  dream  of  vis 
iting  the  town  perched  high  over  the  Tagus, 
whereas  Prague  is  a  stopping-off  spot,  the  Slavic 
city  farthest  west,  the  gateway  to  the  Slavic 
lands.  Cosmopolitan,  nevertheless  it  has  pre 
served  its  proud  individual  profile. 

The  first  time  I  passed  it  I  was  en  route  for 
Vienna  and  Budapest.  In  my  ears  the  mu 
sical  sequence  of  words  reproachfully  hummed: 
201 


PRAGUE 

Vltava,  Vysehrad,  Vysehrad,  Vltava!  and  I  grew 
indignant  when  the  railway  guard  pointed  out  the 
"Moldau."  The  cathedral  and  castles  grouped 
on  the  hill  made  a  fascinating  silhouette  against 
the  sky-line ;  yet  I  stayed  in  the  train,  from  sheer 
inertia,  I  suppose,  and  it  was  several  years  after 
that  I  paid  the  city  my  initial  visit.  I  could  not 
forget  the  alluring  prospect  of  wood,  of  noble 
architecture ;  above  all,  of  the  sanguinary  pages 
of  its  history.  Arthur  Symons  put  it  well  when 
he  wrote  that  to  a  Bohemian  "Prague  is  still  the 
epitome  of  the  history  of  his  country;  he  sees 
it  as  a  man  sees  the  woman  he  loves,  with  her 
first  beauty,  and  he  loves  it,  as  a  man  loves  a 
woman,  more  for  what  she  has  suffered."  It 
was  love  at  first  sight  when  I  peeped  at  Prague 
from  a  moving  train. 

Who  hasn't  heard  of  the  Bridge  of  Prague  (the 
Karlsbriicke),  and  who  of  the  older  generation 
cannot  recall  that  thunderous  pianoforte  piece 
known  as  The  Battle  of  Prague?  It  even 
smote  upon  the  tender  ears  of  Thackeray.  To 
day  I  haven't  the  remotest  notion  of  its  com 
poser,  nor  do  I  care  to  know  his  name;  such 
music,  The  Maiden's  Prayer  included,  is  im 
mortal.  But  I  always  puzzled  over  the  par 
ticular  battle  this  particular  morceau  is  sup 
posed  to  musically  illustrate.  Probably  the 
fierce  one  of  1757,  and  a  bloody  battle  it  was, 
with  the  Germans. 

I  also  made  the  astounding  discovery  that 
Prague  is  spelled  "Praha"  by  the  natives,  pro- 
202 


PRAGUE 

nounced  Prah,  and  that  the  famous  Prager 
Schinken  (Prague  ham)  is  not  so  good  in  the 
city  from  which  it  takes  its  name;  also  that 
Pilsen,  a  few  hours  away,  is  spelled  Plzen,  and 
that  its  magic  amber  brew  tastes  better  in 
Prague.  Verily,  you  may  exclaim  with  George 
Borrow:  "Those  who  wish  to  regale  on  good 
Cheshire  cheese  must  not  come  to  Chester,  no 
more  than  those  who  wish  first-rate  coffee  must 
go  to  Mocha." 

Tossing  the  proverbial  advice  of  guides  over 
my  left  shoulder  for  luck,  I  left  the  Blauer 
Stern  on  the  Hybernska  Ulice  -  -  the  words 
begin  to  blister  your  eyes  —  went  through  the 
powder  tower  opposite  the  hotel,  and  by  the 
Celetana  place  reached  the  Rathhaus,  or  Town 
Hall,  passed  the  historic  Tein  (or  Tyn)  Church; 
also  the  old  Jewish  cemetery,  and  presently 
found  myself  on  the  river's  edge  at  the  Cech 
Bridge,  a  modern  affair,  quite  wide,  flanked  by 
tall  columns  at  both  ends  and  leading  to  the 
delectable  territory  which  I  had  earlier  viewed 
from  afar.  It  was  only  the  night  before  that  I 
had  arrived  from  Vienna,  and  I  was  too  tired 
to  rove  about;  besides,  Prague  is  not  a  brilliant 
night  city.  The  Graben,  or  main  thoroughfare, 
is  not  wonderfully  illuminated,  and  the  inhab 
itants  retire  early,  or  seem  to;  at  all  events,  I 
preferred  a  good  rest  to  noctambulistic  prowl- 
ings. 

The  morning  proved  cloudy.  Rain  was  im 
minent.  And,  not  in  too  high  feather,  I  was 
203 


PRAGUE 

on  the  point  of  crossing  the  bridge  when  a  polite 
official  held  out  his  hand  for  a  tiny  toll.  At  this 
juncture,  and  as  I  searched  for  small  change, 
the  sun  stabbed  through  the  mist  high  on  the 
hills  the  imperial  palace  and  the  Hradschin,  or 
capitol  (on  the  Hradcany),  the  pinnacles  of  St. 
Vitus's  Cathedral  (Veitdom),  the  four  Ottokar 
towers,  and  two  towers  of  St.  George  swam 
gloriously  in  the  air  above  me,  a  miracle  of 
tender  rose  and  marble  white  with  golden  spots 
of  sunshine  that  would  have  made  envious 
Claude  Monet. 

The  spectacle  was  of  brief  duration,  for  the 
day  cleared,  and  as  I  mounted  the  broad  road 
leading  to  the  pile  of  masonry  I  could  note  the 
solidity  of  what  was  once  ancient  Prague,  its 
impregnability  in  case  of  siege,  and  its  extraor 
dinary  romantic  beauty. 

It  is  the  lodestar  of  the  city.  No  matter  your 
position,  your  eye  finally  rests  on  the  Hradcany. 
I  went  to  the  Schloss  Belvedere,  and  from  its 
terrace  I  had  another  view  of  the  cathedral. 
Close  by  it  is  more  wonderful,  especially  the 
apses.  From  the  Karl's  Bridge  you  see  it  in 
profile;  from  the  Marienschanz  it  is  not  so  ef 
fective.  But  always  it  dominates  the  city,  it  is 
the  leitmotif  in  an  architectural  symphony;  yet 
never  has  it  since  showed  for  me  such  supernal 
beauty  as  that  first  morning  when  the  sun 
had  decomposed  its  massive  lengths  and  trans 
formed  its  masonry  into  a  many-hued  opales 
cent  vision. 

204 


PRAGUE 

I  confess  that  I  was  rather  disappointed  with 
the  celebrated  Chapel  of  St.  Wenceslas  (Wen- 
zel)  in  the  cathedral.  It  was  built  about  1360, 
and  there  is  a  display  of  Bohemian  jewels  that 
make  a  garish  impression.  The  frescoes  are 
dim,  and  the  little  picture  depicting  the  mur 
der  of  the  saint  —  his  amiable  brother,  Boleslay, 
was  the  assassin  —  is  said  to  be  of  Cranach's 
school,  but  it  is  mediocre.  A  ring  in  the  door 
was  grasped  by  Wenceslas  when  he  was  slain. 

The  church  is  crammed  with  the  bones  of 
buried  kings.  The  shrine  of  St.  Nepomuc  (St. 
John  Nepomucane)  is  of  more  interest.  It  is 
composed  of  nearly  two  tons  of  silver.  Modern 
iconoclasts  deny  the  existence  of  Nepomuc,  but 
there  is  his  tomb,  and,  if  my  memory  serves  me 
right,  I  think  there  are  relics  of  his  in  Phila 
delphia,  where  they  are  said  to  have  worked 
miracles. 

However,  I  was  not  sorry  to  leave  the  cathe 
dral  after  vespers,  for  the  air  within  was  heavy. 
I  descended  by  way  of  the  Mala  Strana  (Klein- 
seite),  enjoyed  the  view  of  the  Hasenburg,  with 
its  lofty  tower,  then  crossed  the  Karlsbriicke, 
counted  its  many  stone  saints  and  heroes,  and 
finally  reached  the  Town  Hall  (Rathhaus)  in 
time  to  see  the  old  and  curious  clock  of  the 
Erkeskapelle  perform  its  little  play  for  the 
benefit  of  a  throng  of  peasants  and  others. 

It  was  made  in  1490  by  a  patient,  pious,  and 
ingenious  person  called  Magister  Hanus.  It  an 
nounces  the  hours  and  the  rising  and  setting  of 
205 


PRAGUE 

sun  and  moon.  Over  the  clock  is  a  little  win 
dow,  in  which  the  figures  of  Christ  and  his  apos 
tles  appear  when  the  hour  strikes.  The  best 
part  of  the  show  was,  of  course,  the  people  who 
with  serious  expression  watched  for  the  clock- 
maker's  puppets  as  if  assisting  at  a  solemn  ser 
vice.  I  told  myself  that  the  age  of  faith  is  not 
dead;  that  whether  Hussitek  or  Catholic,  the 
Bohemians  always  were,  and  still  are,  of  a  re 
ligious  nature.  On  Sunday  the  churches  are 
packed,  and  if  the  citizen  and  his  family  enjoy 
themselves  in  the  afternoon,  vespers  show  no 
falling  off  in  attendance;  indeed,  the  favourite 
promenade  after  the  midday  dinner  and  before 
the  afternoon  coffee  is  up  the  Hradcany  Hill, 
there  to  visit  either  Sankt  Veit's  Cathedral  or  St. 
George  and  attend  the  vespers  service.  Along 
the  river  bank  is  another  favourite  promenade, 
or  up  to  the  Star  Hunting  Lodge,  where  in  1620 
was  fought  the  battle  of  the  White  Mountain. 

These  same  people,  despite  the  Germanic 
strain,  are  as  Slavic  as  the  Hungarians  are  Mag 
yar.  Since  the  revival  of  the  national  tongue, 
in  the  early  part  of  the  nineteenth  century,  the 
speech  is  preferably  Czech  (or  Cech,  as  they 
spell  it),  German  not  being  so  universal  as  it 
was.  All  the  storekeepers  speak  German,  Eng 
lish,  and  French,  but  interrogate  the  average 
man  or  woman  in  the  streets  and  you  will  seldom 
be  answered  in  anything  but  Czech.  This  is  a 
gratifying  evidence  of  reviving  patriotism. 

It  must  not  be  forgotten  that  Prague,  as 
206 


PRAGUE 

Count  Liitzow  has  pointed  out  in  his  valuable 
books  on  Bohemia,  "is  now  an  Austrian  provin 
cial  town,  though  Bohemia  has  always  been 
officially  described  as  a  kingdom,  not  as  a  prov 
ince."  Reserved  to  the  point  of  reticence  even 
when  you  are  made  free  of  their  homes  and  wel 
comed  with  unaffected  hospitality,  the  Bohe 
mian  is  persistently  Slav.  He  speaks  with 
affection  of  the  aged  Emperor  Joseph,  but  he 
does  not  in  his  heart  of  hearts  love  Austria. 

Centuries  of  warfare  have  made  him  both 
hardy  and  suspicious.  He  will  fight  at  the  drop 
of  the  handkerchief,  but  will  hold  his  tongue  if 
you  mention  the  Tripartite  Kingdom,  which  is 
as  it  should  be.  The  Hungarians  are  less  pru 
dent. 

I  walked  much  in  Prague  town,  old  and  new. 
I  never  saw  so  many  pretty  girls  elsewhere, 
either  in  Vienna  or  Budapest,  which  is  saying 
a  lot.  Now,  since  the  Bohemian  emigration  to 
the  United  States  is  considerable,  the  peculiar 
type  of  beauty  may  be  familiar  in  our  coast 
cities.  Not  always  brunette,  though,  as  a  rule, 
these  young  girls,  chiefly  of  the  peasant  and 
poorest  classes,  are  noted  for  their  brilliant  col 
ouring,  eyes  as  magnificent  as  those  of  Tuscan 
belles,  strong,  well-knit  figures,  and  in  bearing 
extremely  proud.  Splendid,  is  the  comment 
you  make  as  at  eve  or  early  in  the  morning  hun 
dreds  and  hundreds  of  these  healthy  creatures 
pass  you  to  and  from  work.  Saturday  evening 
the  Graben  is  crowded  with  them  shopping, 
207 


PRAGUE 

coquetting  in  anything  but  a  subtle  fashion, 
gossiping,  and  thoroughly  enjoying  their  holi 
day. 

The  hotels  in  Prague  are  second-class,  the 
cafes,  with  one  exception,  not  of  the  sort  you 
have  so  regretfully  left  in  Vienna,  but  there  are 
compensations.  The  cuisine,  while  its  chief 
ingredients  are  Austrian,  is  Bohemian.  There 
is  a  Czechic  nuance  in  the  pastry  and  I  have 
seldom  tasted  such  apple  tarts,  muffins  stuffed 
with  poppy-seed  jam,  dumplings  of  cream  cheese, 
crumpets  unparalleled,  ham,  egg,  cream,  and 
apricot  jam.  A  Bohemian  cook  "cuts  up  a 
bird,  spices  its  liver  in  a  casserole,  boils  its  back 
and  serves  it  with  rice,  spices  its  breast  and 
bakes  it,  and  makes  a  brown  stew  of  its  giblets 
and  feet."  I  quote  from  a  well-known  author 
ity.  And  I  have  enjoyed  just  such  "golly- 
gubs"  as  the  little  Bohemian  Hungry  Henriettas 
would  call  their  titbits  at  the  Blue  Star,  where, 
frankly  speaking,  the  cooking  is  better  than  any 
I  tasted  at  Berlin  in  vaunted  restaurants. 

As  for  the  Pilsen  Urquell  —  and  you  can't  go 
to  Prague  without  drinking  its  chief  beverage 
—  I  can  only  say  as  a  humble  admirer  of  the 
liquid  that  makes  pleased  the  palate  but  does 
not  fatten,  that  not  in  Pilsen,  its  home,  is  the 
brew  so  artfully  presented. 

One    night    I    went    down  —  or    up  —  the 

Graben  to  a  narrow  street,  well-nigh  an  alley, 

called  the  Brentgasse,  there  to  find  a  restaurant 

consisting  of  several  small  rooms,  the  ceilings 

208 


PRAGUE 

low,  the  tables  bare  of  linen,  a  huge  stove  in  a 
corner  producing  the  necessary  heat,  and  the 
ventilation  not  very  good.  I  gave  my  order 
and  it  took  exactly  eight  minutes  for  me  to  get 
what  I  had  asked  for.  But  it  was  worth  wait 
ing  for  a  year.  At  a  table  hard  by  sat  a  group  — 
three  officers,  two  clergymen,  and  one  civilian. 
They  spoke  low  and  earnestly.  I  suppose  they 
took  at  least  an  hour  to  empty  one  glass,  yet 
that  glass  of  Pilsen  looked  as  if  it  were  newly 
born.  As  they  conversed  in  Bohemian,  of  which 
I  understand  one  word,  "Plzen,"  I  never  en 
joyed  a  pleasanter  hour. 

Sensible  people,  temperate  in  eating  and 
drinking,  are  the  people  of  Prague. 

The  newly  built  Representatives  House,  next 
to  the  powder  tower,  is  a  gorgeous  building, 
with  flaring  lights,  thronged  with  coffee  drinkers 
between  five  and  seven  in  the  evening,  and  con 
taining  an  excellent  restaurant,  the  best  outside 
of  the  Blauer  Stern.  I  should  like  to  print  a 
specimen  menu  card  for  your  edification,  but  I 
fear  printers  and  proof-readers  would  rebel.  I 
had  an  Omleta  royal,  a  Fogos  fish,  a  Telec  filet 
specarky,  and  Ledovy  creme,  ending  with  an 
Americky  compot,  and,  of  course,  some  Austrian 
light  wine. 

Oh,  the  joy  of  roaming  at  night  in  a  dark, 
strange  city!  I  often  found  myself  in  quiet, 
mean  streets,  the  windows  and  doors  of  the 
houses  as  if  sealed,  the  silence  of  death  about  all. 
However,  I  believe  I  did  overhear  snoring  on 
209 


PRAGUE 

more  than  one  occasion,  a  hint  that  I  did  not 
fail  to  take. 

Once  in  my  hotel  I  disdained  the  snail-like 
"lift"  and  went  to  the  second  floor,  perhaps  not 
without  panting,  but  happy  when  I  could  find 
my  room.  Fancy  about  a  mile  of  dimly  lit  cor 
ridors,  freakish  twists  and  turns,  sudden  little 
staircases  that  lead  to  sprained  ankles  or  else 
blasphemous  ejaculations;  then  another  vista 
of  doors,  with  boots,  secret-looking,  sinister 
boots,  in  front  of  them;  comes  a  familiar  curve, 
and  you  are  not  at  home,  though  in  a  hallway 
large  enough  to  hold  your  trunks  and  a  horse  and 
carriage  besides,  but  in  a  safe  harbour  at  last. 

The  old-fashioned  bathroom,  with  a  tub  as 
deep  as  a  well,  as  big  as  the  Giant's  Causeway, 
tells  you  that  you  are  not  in  America  but  in  the 
land  —  meaning  Europe  —  where  bathtubs  are 
not  taken  seriously,  where,  indeed,  no  man  in 
love  with  art  will  sell  his  spiritual  birthright  for 
the  sake  of  a  bathtub ;  where  —  and  then  you 
fall  asleep  to  dream  the  battle  of  Prague  and  its 
cannonading. 

But  there  are  plenty  of  sights  left  for  the  soft 
daylight.  If  you  should  happen  to  be  in  the 
mood  antiquarian  or  ethnographical  there  is 
the  oldest  Jewish  synagogue  in  Prague,  built, 
so  tradition  hath  it,  by  the  first  fugitives  from 
Jerusalem  after  its  destruction.  Certainly  it  is 
known  to  have  been  rebuilt  in  1338,  a  date  suf 
ficiently  far  off  to  gladden  the  heart  of  the  lover 
of  mould. 

210 


PRAGUE 

A  large  flag  testifies  to  the  bravery  of  the  Jews 
during  the  siege  of  Prague  by  the  Swedes  in  1 648 
and  was  presented  by  Ferdinand  III.  The 
Jewish  burial-ground  near  by  is  a  quaint  spot. 
It  has  not  been  used  for  over  a  century.  There 
are  literally  thousands  of  tombs  covered  with 
vegetation,  many  of  which  bear  either  the  names 
of  the  occupants  in  Jewish  script  or  else  the 
symbol  of  the  tribe  to  which  the  deceased  be 
longed.  A  strange  and  not  too  cheerful  place. 

The  view  from  the  Palacky  Quay  (named 
after  the  great  Bohemian  statesman)  is  pictur 
esque;  bridges,  palaces,  and  churches  lie  in  the 
perspective. 

The  Bohemian  National  Theatre  is  pleasantly 
situated.  The  theatrical  performances  are  high 
class.  Sometimes  Dalibor  is  a  favourite  — 
Dalibor,  after  whom  is  named  the  Daliborka 
town,  was  a  knight  who  was  in  revolt,  impris 
oned,  and  beheaded.  He  was  a  violinist  and 
became  the  theme  of  many  romantic  tales.  He 
is  also  the  hero  of  a  novel  by  Wenceslas  Vlcek. 

At  a  concert  in  the  Representatives  House  I 
heard  a  programme  consisting  of  a  scherzo  by 
Dvorak,  a  symphony  by  Smetana,  a  new  sym 
phonic  poem  entitled  Prague  by  Josef  Suk,  one 
of  the  rriost  gifted  of  contemporary  Bohemian 
composers,  and  a  work  by  Sdenko  Fibich  (a 
much-neglected  composer  in  America).  Truly  a 
feast  for  patriots  as  well  as  the  musical. 

I  may  say  without  fear  of  denial  that  the 
Bohemians  are  musical  to  the  pitch  of  exalta- 
211 


PRAGUE 

tion.  They  dearly  love  a  good  fiddler.  And 
wasn't  Prague  the  very  hub  of  violin  playing, 
for  there  the  pedagogue  Sevcik  has  turned  out 
such  pupils  as  the  faulty  faultless  Kubelik, 
Kocian,  and  how  many  others?  The  Sevcik 
school  is  in  Vienna  at  the  present. 

And  now  I  approach  the  more  serious,  nay, 
tragic,  side  of  my  little  recital:  the  history  of 
the  religious  wars  which  for  so  many  years 
ravaged  the  fair  land  of  Bohemia  —  a  more 
romantic-appearing  land  does  not  exist,  not  even 
Ireland  --  spilled  cataracts  of  blood  divided 
father  and  son,  daughter  from  mother,  put  a 
curse  on  progress,  and  all  this  devastating  misery 
for  what?  For  something  that  to-day  has 
as  much  interest  or  value  as  certain  mediaeval 
scholastic  discussions  regarding  the  number  of 
devils  that  dance  on  the  head  of  a  needle. 

What  a  waste  of  human  life  for  naught!  I 
remember  once  some  one  saying  to  me:  "Relig 
ion  is  made  for  mankind,  not  mankind  for  re 
ligion,"  which  very  liberal  opinion  coming  from 
the  mouth  of  a  wise  and  pious  person  caused  me 
to  stare.  I  have  thought  of  this  remark  each 
time  I  read  the  history  of  Prague,  and  I  have 
wondered  what  would  have  been  its  history  if 
the  Huss  embroilment  had  been  left  out  by  the 
gods,  on  whose  laps  are  shaped  the  destiny  of 
nations.  But  such  a  thought  is  worse  than 
futile. 

When  Kaiser  Franz  Joseph  visited  Prague  as 
a  young  archduke  he  said:  "It  is  impossible  to 
212 


PRAGUE 

conceive  a  history  of  Bohemia  from  which  the 
Hussite  wars  are  excluded."  He  was  right. 
Like  the  Irish,  the  Bohemian  is  a  theological 
man.  He  loves  the  knotty  discussions  that 
lead  nowhere,  or  else  to  the  battle-field;  he  is 
stubborn,  without  the  natural  fund  of  humour 
the  Celt  possesses,  but  he  is  as  quarrelsome,  and 
no  quarrel  is  as  attractive  as  one  over  doctrinal 
issues. 

I  said  just  now  that  the  Huss-Wycliffe- 
Catholic- Church  controversy  seems  futile  in 
the  light  of  modern  reason,  but  some  centuries 
ago  it  was  the  very  bone  and  sinew  of  the  Bo 
hemian  race.  For  John  Huss  or  against  John 
Huss;  that  was  the  question,  and  the  theme 
that  stirred  so  mightily  an  entire  race  then  is 
bound  to  stir  us  now.  Every  dog  has  its  day. 
John  Huss,  who  set  Prague  by  the  ears,  was  not 
even  born  there,  nor  did  he  die  there.  Be 
trayed  by  the  lying  promises  of  King  Sigismund, 
he  was  burned  at  the  stake  in  Constance  (No 
vember,  1414). 

I  found  the  speech  of  the  Austrian  Emperor 
quoted  above  in  Count  Liitzow's  exceedingly 
readable  book  about  Prague.  Not  only  a  pa 
triotic  Bohemian,  Liitzow,  who  writes  English  as 
if  it  were  his  mother  tongue,  he  is  also  a  mem 
ber  of  an  old  and  noble  family  (you  surely  re 
member  the  legend  of  Liitzow's  Wild  Hunt),  dis 
tinguished  in  the  history  of  his  race.  He  has, 
therefore,  written  with  sympathy  and  an  inti 
mate  knowledge  peculiarly  valuable  to  those 
213 


PRAGUE 

foreigners  for  whom  the  larger  works  on  the 
subject  are  naturally  inaccessible. 

He  tells  us  in  his  story  of  Bohemia  of  the 
legendary  Libussa,  who  succeeded  her  father 
Krok,  or  Crosus,  on  the  throne,  although  she 
was  the  youngest  daughter.  Finding  her  task 
as  a  ruler  difficult,  she  decided  to  call  in  the  aid 
of  a  husband,  and  to  accomplish  this  she  prophe 
sied  to  her  malcontent  councillors.  Pointing  to 
a  distant  hill,  she  said:  "Behind  these  hills  is  a 
small  river  called  Belina,  and  on  its  bank  a  farm 
named  Stadic.  Near  that  farm  is  a  field,  and 
in  that  field  your  future  ruler  is  ploughing 
with  two  oxen  marked  with  various  spots.  His 
name  is  Premsyl  and  his  descendants  will  rule 
over  you  for  ever.  Take  my  horse  and  follow 
him;  he  will  lead  you  to  the  spot." 

This  beats  the  story  of  Cincinnatus.  But 
the  lady  prophesied  truly.  Premsyl  was  found 
(what  he  thought  of  the  affair  has  never  been 
told)  and  crowned,  and  later  his  queen  built 
Prague  on  the  hill  called  Hradcany.  (So  Prague 
may  be  claimed  as  a  petticoat  creation.) 

If  a  political  party  grew  too  powerful  or  too 
odious  in  the  old  days,  its  principal  members 
were  usually  enticed  into  the  palace  chamber 
in  the  hill  under  the  pretext  of  an  important 
council  and  then  suddenly  thrown  from  a  win 
dow  to  the  moat  or  ditch  below.  This  is  called 
defenestration  —  which  sounds  better  than  it  is. 

In  the  Hradcany  castle  on  May  23,  1618,  sev 
eral  royal  officials  were  pitched  through  the 
214 


PRAGUE 

window.  Oddly  enough  they  were  not  killed, 
and  their  escape  was  pronounced  a  miracle  by 
their  pious  adherents. 

But  let  us  return  to  a  pleasanter  theme.  I 
visited  the  Clementinum,  occupied  by  the  Jesuit 
fathers,  which  is  rich  in  manuscripts  and  pos 
sesses  a  library  of  nearly  two  hundred  and  fifty 
thousand  volumes;  and  I  visited  the  Rudolph- 
inum,  a  stately  structure  built  in  1884.  It 
contains  two  concert  rooms,  a  conservatory  of 
music,  and  a  picture-gallery,  the  latter  hous 
ing  much  mediocre  art,  also  a  few  excellent 
examples  by  Rembrandt,  Rubens,  Terburg, 
Watteau,  Holbein. 

Bohemians  wonder  why  their  rarely  beauti 
ful  city  is  not  visited  by  more  Americans.  The 
Germans  overflow  the  town,  as  do  the  Austrians. 
Arthur  Symons  discovered  it  for  the  English  in 
his  exquisite  epitome  of  travel,  Cities,  but  Amer 
icans  prefer  the  blandishments  of  Berlin,  Paris, 
or  London. 

I  think  I  can  give  one  reason  for  this  avoid 
ance  of  a  spot  that  is  both  a  sacred  shrine  of 
history  and  a  living  witness  to  the  magic  of 
natural  beauty.  It  is  this:  To  reach  Prague 
you  must,  if  you  come  from  America,  travel 
via  Berlin,  Dresden,  over  Bodenbach,  and  the 
train  service,  according  to  our  latter-day  de 
mands,  is  not  up  to  the  average.  Stuffy  car 
riages,  whether  first  or  second  class,  poor  res 
taurant  cars,  no  de  luxe  trains,  and  every  one 
a  crawler. 

215 


PRAGUE 

Some  day  I  hope  the  German  and  Austrian 
railway  officials  will  realise  what  a  jewel  they 
are  neglecting,  and  that  we  may  go  from  Berlin 
to  Prague  in  five  hours  instead  of  seven,  and  in 
new  coaches  with  a  decent  dining-car  attached. 
But  in  any  case  Prague  is  worth  the  bother 
getting  there. 


216 


Ill 

LITTLE  HOLLAND 
I 

ROTTERDAM 

IT  is  raining  in  Rotterdam.  But  you  are  not 
melancholy.  From  a  balcony  at  the  rear  of  the 
old  hotel  you  view  with  joy  a  wide  canal.  On 
it  float  two  or  three  flat-bottomed  boats.  You 
have  been  surfeited  for  days  with  the  ocean, 
with  the  round  cupped  horizon;  here  is  water 
again,  but  civilised  and  restrained  by  the  arts 
of  man.  Therefore  the  rain  matters  little.  It 
is  not  a  heavy  downpour,  only  a  misty,  per 
vasive  wet  that  adds  to  the  intimate  quality 
of  the  cityscape.  One  of  the  canal-boats  has 
just  discharged  a  cargo  of  peat-bog;  not  a  clean 
job.  The  bargemen  have  gone  away;  the  fiery- 
tempered  little  dog  of  the  man  and  woman  who 
live  on  board  barks  at  canine  passers-by,  and 
the  flat  brick  facades  of  the  warehouses  opposite 
recall  certain  streets  in  old  Philadelphia.  The 
architecture  is  the  same:  the  dull  dark  brick 
picked  out  with  marble,  the  low  stoop  of  stone 
or  marble,  the  air  of  exaggerated  cleanliness, 
217 


LITTLE  HOLLAND 

and  the  homelike  atmosphere.  You  could  swear 
you  were  walking  along  the  wharfs  of  the 
Delaware  River  as  they  must  have  looked 
about  1850.  But  the  odour  is  different.  It  is 
not  at  all  Pennsylvanian.  The  moment  the 
Hook  of  Holland  is  sighted  from  your  steamer 
the  specific  Dutch  smell  begins.  It  is  tarry, 
fishy,  swampy,  and  not  without  acerbity.  When 
you  walk  along  some  antique  gracht  (canal)  the 
odour  becomes  malodorous.  But  we  shall  later 
return  to  this  ever-present  question.  Let  us 
look  at  the  boats. 

The  man  is  preparing  for  Sunday.  While  he 
sluices  the  deck  with  water  drawn  from  the 
canal  by  bucket,  his  wife  hangs  out  the  family 
wash  to  dry.  It  is  not  large.  She  has  dipped 
it  into  some  yellow  stuff  and  it  is  as  white  as 
snow  that  has  been  trampled  on.  No  sympathy 
need  be  wasted  upon  this  stout,  good-natured 
Dutch  woman.  No  cohort  of  suffragettes  could 
ever  convince  her  that  a  woman's  duty  was 
aught  else  but  to  cook  and  wash  for  her  husband 
and  to  bear  him  children.  He  works  eighteen 
hours  out  of  the  twenty-four;  why  shouldn't 
she?  There  is  no  woman  question  in  Holland. 
There  is  only  the  baby  question.  Large  fam 
ilies  abound,  and  if  wages  were  higher  and  gin 
dearer  happiness  would  be  universal.  As  it  is, 
the  poorer  class  seems  content.  This  particular 
boatman  and  his  wife  had  a  crew  of  children 
with  them,  tow-headed  youngsters,  boys  and 
girls  who  when  ranged  on  deck  for  the  midday 
218 


LITTLE  HOLLAND 

soup  looked  like  a  row  of  organ-pipes.  Little 
wonder  the  rain  could  not  spoil  the  picture  for 
the  pilgrim. 

It  is  a  pity  that  so  many  Americans  entering 
Holland  by  the  Holland-American  Line  do  not 
remain  longer  at  Rotterdam.  There  are  many 
sights,  many  beautiful  views  from  the  top  of 
the  White  House,  and  the  enormous  vitality  of 
the  city  life  impresses  one  as  nowhere  else  in 
Holland,  not  in  Amsterdam  itself.  Indeed,  as 
a  port,  Rotterdam  has  quite  outdistanced  the 
mother  capital  and  is  causing  Antwerp  to  look 
sharply  after  its  own  business.  The  White 
House  is  the  tallest  building  in  the  country  and 
was  built  on  the  profits  of  American  oil.  Ten 
stories  high,  its  foundations  are  necessarily  deep, 
for  the  soil  is  treacherous  and  swallows  up 
wooden  piles  like  quicksand.  From  the  top  you 
may  see  The  Hague,  only  a  half-hour  away, 
Hook  of  Holland,  Dordrecht,  Gouda  — •  where 
the  meadow  cows  still  wear  coverings  as  noted 
by  Carlyle  in  Sartor  Resartus  —  Delft,  and 
about  half  of  Holland.  But  the  most  inspiring 
spectacle  is  the  river  Maas  winding  its  silvery 
way  to  the  sea,  bearing  every  variety  of  craft 
from  a  steel  steamship  to  the  tiniest  fisherman's 
coracle;  above  all,  American  petroleum  tank 
steamers.  By  no  means  as  grandiose  as  New 
York  Harbour,  the  Rotterdam  haven,  with  its 
bridges,  its  network  of  canals,  its  shipping;  and 
the  ceaseless  play  of  light  and  shade  on  the 
many-coloured  objects,  the  vivid  green  of  the 
219 


LITTLE  HOLLAND 

islets,  the  low-lying,  lazily  moving  fleecy  cloud 
boulders,  the  bustle  and  hammering,  shrieking  of 
steam-whistles  form  a  distinctive  picture. 

As  for  the  churches,  St.  Lawrence  leading  in 
interest,  the  Stock  Exchange  (Beurs),  the  various 
public  edifices,  the  private  residences,  and  the 
historical  monuments,  these  are  matters  best 
left  to  Baedeker.  A  first  visit  to  this  fascinat 
ing  country  should  dispose  of  all  such  neces 
sary  though  fatiguing  attractions.  Traversing 
mouldy  palaces,  churches,  and  other  damp,  dis 
agreeable  buildings  has  a  charm  for  the  new 
comer.  There  is  another  Holland,  however,  the 
Holland  of  glorious  pictures,  the  Holland  of  by 
ways,  odd  corners,  queer,  unexpected  alleys  far 
from  the  noisy  centres,  where  A.  D.  1909  sud 
denly  becomes  1609,  where  groups  of  industrious 
humans  live  and  die  without  ever  getting  farther 
away  from  home  than  the  zoological  garden. 

The  much-talked-of  native  costume  you  sel 
dom  see  in  Rotterdam.  The  canal-boat  people 
dress  in  sombre  garments,  sailors  are  the  same 
the  world  over,  and  the  business  men  are  just 
what  you  expect.  Holland  can  boast  of  long- 
legged  men.  The  proverbial  little  Dutchman, 
thick  as  a  hogshead,  is  not  nearly  so  prevalent 
as  you  think.  Tall,  broad-shouldered  men  wear 
ing  on  their  small  heads  hats  too  small  for 
harmony  hurriedly  pass  by,  swinging  the  inev 
itable  cane.  They  are  warmly  clothed  for  Sep 
tember,  but  the  late  afternoon  brings  dampness, 
the  evening  coolness.  Every  one  who  wishes 
220 


LITTLE  HOLLAND 

to  see,  or  to  be  seen,  sits  at  the  tables  in  the  cafe 
terraces.  They  drink  beer,  excellent  imported 
Pilsner,  Amstel,  or  Heineken.  Yet  one  cannot 
call  the  Dutch  a  nation  of  beer  drinkers.  The 
climate  does  not  invite  the  thirst  of  the  Teuton. 
Just  as  their  existence  is  a  long  battle  with  the 
invading  sea,  so  the  chill  of  the  air,  omnipresent 
the  hottest  days  of  July,  must  be  battled  with, 
and  gin  is  the  chief  weapon.  The  juice  of  the 
juniper  berry  is  popular.  A  Dutch  American 
shook  his  fist  as  we  passed  Schiedam  on  the 
steamer,  declaring  that  the  city  was  the  devil's 
distillery;  but  gin  is  not  such  a  curse  as  has 
been  asserted.  The  poor  man  who  earns  ten  to 
fifteen  florins  a  week,  or  the  dock  labourers  who 
earn  much  more,  drink  their  gin,  too  often  on 
an  empty  stomach.  Nevertheless,  Holland  is 
a  fairly  temperate  nation.  In  Rotterdam  we 
saw  one  drunken  man  in  three  days,  and  he 
was  celebrating  of  a  Saturday  night.  His  wife, 
shamefaced  at  the  public  disgrace,  supported 
him  as  he  stumbled,  cursed,  and  roared.  A 
great  crowd  followed,  jeering.  We  asked  a  cafe 
waiter  if  it  was  a  common  occurrence.  He 
replied  in  the  negative,  but  a  companion  waiter 
shook  his  head  affirmatively.  When  doctors 
disagree  it  is  well  to  strike  a  happy  balance. 

Amusing,  and  also  sad,  were  the  antics  of  a 
girl  aged  about  six,  who  led  a  band  of  desperate 
babies  in  petticoats  in  a  charge  upon  every 
stranger  who  sat  on  the  cafe  terrace.  She 
might  have  stepped  from  either  a  Holbein  or  a 
221 


LITTLE  HOLLAND 

Hals  canvas.  The  round  head,  the  thick  neck, 
ash-blond  hair,  cheeks  loaded  as  if  with  patches 
of  paint,  sharp  little  beady  eyes,  with  a  stout 
body,  strong  hands  and  dirty  —  the  rascal  sim 
ply  caught  the  eye  and  held  it  because  of  her 
health,  humour,  and  audacity.  She  came  fairly 
by  her  temperament,  as  her  father  had  spent 
nearly  thirty  years  of  his  forty  in  jail,  not  for 
thievery,  but  brutality  and  a  too-ready  knife. 
Strong  as  a  buffalo,  he  saw  red  when  a  policeman 
passed.  Gin  was  the  mainspring.  Ten  myr 
midons  of  the  law  it  took  to  subdue  him  a  few 
years  ago,  and  he  contrived  against  such  odds 
to  snatch  a  sword  from  one  of  them  and  to  stab 
the  man.  This  Hercules  of  the  back  alley  has 
a  pretty  wife.  He  beats  her,  of  course,  and  she 
adores  him,  for  he  is  handsome  and  good-tem 
pered  when  he  isn't  drinking.  Only  he  drinks 
whenever  he  can.  His  daughter  is  promising. 
She  begs,  insults  the  folk  that  give  her  pennies, 
and  makes  faces  at  the  diners.  Her  mother  in 
dolently  follows  her,  but  the  brat  always  evades 
her.  It  is  easy  to  predict  her  future. 

Bumping  the  boompjes  is  a  pleasing  game  in 
Rotterdam.  These  docks  are  imposing  and 
picturesque,  but  if  you  ride  you  are  shaken  to 
your  very  centre.  Only  Dutch  spines  can  en 
dure  without  quailing  these  wheels  without  tires 
which  rumble  around  the  town.  For  the  rubber 
tire  you  must  hire  a  taxicab;  there  are  plenty 
and  at  a  cheap  tariff.  That  stony-hearted 
mother.  Oxford  Street,  so  eloquently  hailed  by 
222 


LITTLE  HOLLAND 

De  Quincey,  is  tenderer  than  the  streets  of 
Holland,  which  are  better  suited  to  the  hoofs 
of  oxen  than  to  the  heels  of  mankind.  Belgian 
blocks  are  as  asphalt  in  comparison.  After  an 
hour's  ramble  your  head  resounds  like  a  hollow 
copper  kettle;  this  is  caused  by  the  vibrations 
of  your  suffering  toes.  Until  the  pneumatic 
tire  is  adopted  in  the  larger  cities  of  Holland  we 
refuse  to  believe  them  anything  but  provincial. 
The  Sabbath  is  observed  in  Rotterdam;  that 
is,  people  go  to  church  in  the  morning,  walk 
in  the  afternoon,  visit  the  theatres  and  cafes 
in  the  evening.  Overwhelming  gaiety  there  is 
none,  yet  no  sign  of  the  moroseness  we  have 
been  taught  to  look  for  in  the  character  of  the 
Dutch.  They  are  a  sober,  self-contained,  hard- 
headed  people  in  business,  but  they  relax  when 
that  business  is  transacted.  Pious  they  are, 
whether  Roman  Catholics,  Protestants,  or  He 
brews.  Their  Sunday  is  by  no  means  of  the 
Glasgow  or  London  sort,  and  might  shock  Sab 
batarians,  innocent  as  it  is.  The  servant-girl 
in  all  her  glory  hangs  on  the  arm  of  her  soldier, 
or  else  sits  in  a  Bodega  drinking  a  little  glass  of 
cherry  brandy.  The  air  is  full  of  bluish  tobacco 
smoke;  nowhere  else  are  cigars  so  good  or  so 
cheap.  The  Dutch  colonies  supply  Sumatra 
tobacco,  and  one  may  puff  at  a  five-cent  cigar 
(Dutch  money;  in  ours  two  cents)  without 
tasting  a  stogie  or  a  German  cabbage.  Havana 
cigars  are  equally  low  in  proportion.  A  Bock, 
a  Henry  Clay,  an  Upmann,  the  kind  for  which 
223 


LITTLE  HOLLAND 

you  pay  twenty-five  to  forty  cents  apiece  in  the 
United  States,  you  may  enjoy  at  twelve,  fifteen, 
or  twenty  cents,  American  money.  All  the  men 
and  boys  smoke  in  Holland.  Fancy  a  staid 
father  sitting  at  a  table  in  the  park,  he  with  a 
cigar,  his  boy  of  ten  with  a  long  clay  pipe !  The 
schoolboys  use  cigarettes  as  freely  as  the  Amer 
ican  boy  his  marbles.  And  the  tobacco  seems 
to  agree  with  the  Dutch  chaps  as  do  the  schnapps 
and  the  smell  of  the  brackish  canal  waters. 

The  Boysmans  Museum  is  an  amiable  prepa 
ration  for  the  great  feast  of  pictures  at  The 
Hague,  Haarlem,  and  Amsterdam.  The  usual 
Dutch  artists  figure  in  the  catalogue.  There 
are  no  startling  masterpieces,  though  Roger  van 
der  Weyden's  Apostle  John  is  worth  studying. 
Three  Jacob  Ruysdaels,  two  Hobbemas,  a  cap 
ital  Van  der  Neer,  some  Mauves  and  modern 
landscapes,  a  Vermeer  and  Klinkenberg's  view 
of  the  pretty  Vijver  at  The  Hague,  and  Jong- 
kind's  moonlight  view  make  up,  with  the  Maes 
and  Van  der  Heists  and  Flincks  and  many 
print  and  flower  pieces,  a  pleasing  if  not  dis 
tinguished  collection.  The  portrait  of  his  father 
by  Rembrandt  is  a  boyish  essay  of  historical 
interest.  Rembrandt's  unfinished  allegorical 
painting  (probably  begun  in  1648)  is  not  par 
ticularly  striking. 

The  Dutch  are  not  phlegmatic.  This  state 
ment  may  be  as  trite  as  that  the  Dutch  have 
captured  Holland,  yet  it  may  be  a  novelty  to 
many.  Among  the  polders,  out  in  the  fishing 
224 


LITTLE  HOLLAND 

islands,  and  the  farther  you  go,  Friesland,  Zee- 
land,  old  Dutch  characteristics  may  persist  like 
the  old  dress,  but  in  the  towns  and  cities  the 
modern  Dutchman  is  far  from  being  phlegmatic. 
He  is  rather  vivacious.  He  moves  rapidly, 
speaks  rapidly,  and  indulges  in  gestures.  He 
burns  his  own  smoke  better  than  the  Italians, 
but  he  is  not  the  morose,  pipe-smoking,  senten 
tious  individual  you  read  of;  and  the  women, 
who  dress  as  modishly  as  they  know  how,  they, 
too,  are  mobile,  swift  in  gait  and  speech.  Go 
into  any  of  the  principal  cafes  of  Amsterdam  be 
tween  five  and  seven  o'clock  in  the  evening,  into 
Krasnopolsky's  or  the  American,  you  seem  to 
be  in  Berlin  or  Munich.  At  the  Cafe  Riche  it 
is  more  Parisian.  The  man  of  Amsterdam 
works  too  hard;  his  hours  are  long  and  his 
relaxations  are  few,  for  here  commerce  rules. 
Nervous  diseases,  a  Dutch  specialist  told  us, 
are  on  the  increase.  The  business  man  takes 
his  coffee  or  his  consommation.  A  theatregoer, 
a  lover  of  music,  he  is  nevertheless  a  great  home 
body.  Tea  drinking  after  dinner  is  the  rule  in 
Holland.  Every  one  who  has  been  lucky  enough 
to  get  a  glimpse  of  home  life  will  tell  you  of  the 
cordiality,  the  hospitality,  the  genuine  interest 
with  which  a  stranger  from  overseas  is  made 
welcome.  They  like  the  Americans.  We  are 
in  their  eyes  their  country's  grown-up  children. 
Pictures  of  the  Half  Moon  and  of  New  York 
harbour  are  displayed  in  numerous  shops.  The 
reciprocity  is  sincere. 

225 


LITTLE  HOLLAND 

II 
THROUGH  THE  CANALS 

If  ever  there  will  be  such  a  social  reconstruc 
tion  as  the  United  States  of  Europe,  then  surely 
The  Hague  ought  to  be  the  capital.  It  is  both 
charming  and  cosmopolitan.  It  possesses  the 
intimacy  of  a  little  Holland  city  and  in  it  is 
sounded  the  note,  though  faintly,  of  a  Weltstadt. 
It  is  a  garden  dotted  with  villas,  and  they  say 
that  every  Hollander  with  means  looks  forward 
to  dying  in  this  delectable  spot  almost  within 
sight  and  sound  of  the  North  Sea.  It  com 
mands  a  position  between  Rotterdam  and  Am 
sterdam,  and  in  atmosphere  is  different  from 
both.  The  summer  residence  of  the  court,  in 
name  at  least  —  Queen  Wilhelmina  prefers  Het 
Loo  palace  near  Apeldoorn,  for  years,  the  ac 
credited  capital,  if  not  actually  so — The  Hague, 
with  its  parks,  its  forest,  its  stately  houses  on 
canals  seldom  troubled  by  commerce,  and  its 
excellent  hotels,  is  the  least  Dutch  city  in  the 
country  and  one  in  which  life  goes  upon  oiled 
wheels  except  in  the  noisy  business  district.  To 
summer  there  in  one  of  the  walled-in  villas  along 
the  old  road  to  Scheveningen,  take  a  daily  swim 
at  that  pretty  seaside  resort,  and  sleep  under  the 
immemorial  elms  undisturbed  by  anything  but 
the  diabolical  baker  boy  in  the  early  morning 
slamming  the  lid  of  the  wooden  bread  box  — 
wooden  oaths  with  a  vengeance  —  is  a  dream  of 
226 


LITTLE  HOLLAND 

many  Americans.  Dignity,  order,  moderation 
are  cardinal  virtues  of  the  Dutch.  They  may 
be  best  observed  in  this  city. 

The  happy  disposition  on  the  map  of  Holland 
of  The  Hague  makes  it  a  pivotal  point  for  many 
excursions  to  such  little  cities  as  Delft,  Haarlem, 
Leyden,  and  Utrecht.  The  express-trains  stop 
at  almost  every  station  and  move  slowly;  if 
they  went  at  a  rapid  rate  they  would  soon  run 
into  the  sea  or  into  Belgium,  and  the  road 
bed  will  not  permit  high  speed.  We  recall  with 
a  sinking  feeling  a  damp  Sunday,  September 
13,  1903,  when  the  Amsterdam-Berlin  express 
jumped  the  rails  somewhere  between  Barneveld 
and  Apeldoorn,  and  the  results  thereof.  Luckily 
a  train  can't  run  far  astray  in  this  land  of  sand 
and  canals,  and  our  Pullman  landed  in  a  sand 
bank;  but  several  of  the  other  coaches  were  not 
so  fortunate  and  there  were  casualties.  This 
tale  has  always  been  received  with  polite  incre 
dulity  by  Dutchmen,  for  accidents  are  rare. 
Nevertheless,  an  American  enjoyed  his  first  rail 
road  accident  out  among  the  dikes  and  ditches 
of  Holland. 

Leyden,  when  we  reached  it,  after  an  easy  jaunt 
of  thirty  minutes,  was  sunny  and  comfortably 
warm.  The  pictures  of  this  grave  and  venerable 
university  town  did  not  attract.  We  knew  that 
it  had  to  be  seen,  and  after  that  there  was  the 
inviting  trip  on  the  Carsjens  line  of  steamers 
out  on  the  narrow  canals  past  the  polders,  over 
the  lakes,  and  far  away;  so  around  Leyden  we 
227 


LITTLE  HOLLAND 

went,  hobbling  and  analysing  the  odours  of  its 
various  canals,  hoping  to  discover  their  differ 
ences  from  those  of  Delft,  of  Rotterdam,  and  of 
The  Hague;  but  they  were  plain,  old-fashioned 
bilge-water  smells,  not  necessarily  unhealthy, 
though  never  pleasant.  The  atmosphere  of  the 
place  suggests  hoary  wisdom.  The  dogs  are  dig 
nified,  men  walk  slow,  and  the  women  lower  their 
voices  when  calling  the  children.  The  miserable 
four-wheelers,  with  cast-iron  wheels  (seemingly), 
alone  break  the  Sabbath  peace.  Nevertheless, 
Leyden  is  far  from  being  a  cheerless  spot,  and 
it  is  picturesque.  The  view  of  the  fish  market 
from  the  canal,  with  the  steeple  of  the  Hoog- 
landsche,  or  St.  Pancras  Church,  is  very  striking. 
The  old  city  hall  on  the  Galgewater  boasts  an 
early  seventeenth-century  stepped  gable,  and  in 
the  Lakenhall  (cloth  hall)  there  are  pictures  by 
Lucas  van  Leyden,  Van  Goyen,  Engelbrechtzen, 
Rembrandt  (a  study  of  a  head),  some  Jan  Steens, 
and  others,  all  in  various  stages  of  decay.  The 
Steens  are  the  freshest.  This  place  was  the  birth 
place  of  Rembrandt  van  Rhyn  (they  pretend  to 
show  you  out  somewhere  on  the  Old  Rhine,  so 
called,  the  windmill  of  the  painter's  father),  of 
Lucas,  Jan  van  Goyen,  Gerritt  Dou,  Gabriel 
Metsu,  Frans  van  Mieris,  Jan  Steen  —  surely 
honour  enough  for  one  town.  At  the  municipal 
museum  there  are  several  fine  altar-pieces  by 
another  son  of  Leyden,  Cornelis  Engelbrechtzen, 
and  there  is  a  chimney  decoration  at  the  town 
hall  by  Ferdinand  Bol.  The  university,  the 
228 


LITTLE  HOLLAND 

buildings  of  which  are  scattered  about,  was 
founded  in  1575  and  harboured  many  lights  of 
learning. 

The  cloth-weaving  industry  did  not  interest 
us,  and  after  a  hurried  visit  to  the  Peter's  Church 
we  returned  by  way  of  an  old  canal  to  the  cattle 
market  (Veemarkt),  more  determined  than  ever 
to  avoid  the  National  Museum  of  Antiquities 
(Indian,  Roman,  Egyptian,  Dutch,  of  the  Caro- 
lingian  period)  and  to  adhere  to  our  original 
programme — see  Holland  out-of-doors  and  Hol 
land  painted.  Like  the  late  Dr.  Syntax,  we 
were  in  search  of  the  picturesque,  not  of  prosaic 
historical  details.  We  even  forgot  to  visit  the 
grave  of  Spinoza  at  The  Hague. 

The  Carsjens  excursion  is  the  most  charming 
in  Holland.  If  it  were  not  for  fear  of  abusing 
that  overworked  word  intimate,  we  should  apply 
it  definitively  to  this  steam  around  the  country. 
Amsterdam  affords  various  trips,  but  they  do 
not  seem  to  be  in  the  heart  of  little  Holland. 
The  Zuyder  Zee  is  large,  the  North  Sea  is  not 
far  away,  the  canals  are  broader  than  in  the 
territory  where  move  the  Carsjens.  At  noon 
the  boat  leaves  —  a  small,  comfortable  craft 
with  an  enclosed  saloon  through  the  windows  of 
which  you  may  study  the  country  if  the  wind  is 
too  raw  on  deck.  Through  a  canal  we  move 
as  far  as  the  Old  Rhine,  sadly  shrunk  from  its 
noble  proportions  in  Germany.  Farmhouses, 
always  in  the  shade  of  trees;  brick  and  tile  yards; 
meadows  with  cows,  horses,  sheep,  pigs,  chickens, 
229 


LITTLE  HOLLAND 

windmills,  whose  wings  look  like  razorblades;  a 
low,  serene  sky-line,  water  everywhere;  clouds 
that  roll  together  and  separate  as  sharp  shafts 
of  sunshine  emerge  and  touch  the  earth.  Van 
Goyen,  Cuyp,  Hobbema,  Ruysdael  painted  these 
views  many  times.  It  all  seems  so  familiar,  so 
homelike,  with  the  church  spire  emerging  from 
a  clump  of  trees  and  the  kitchen  windows  of  a 
brick  house  wide  open  as  we  pass.  We  can 
smell  what  is  cooking.  The  dogs  bark  at  our 
one  sailor,  and  the  stewards  throw  bread-crumbs 
to  the  myriad  ducks  that  haunt  these  waters. 
Their  outcry  recalls  the  scream  of  the  gulls  as 
the  ocean  steamship  enters  Rotterdam  —  or 
Hamburg,  Plymouth,  Cherbourg,  or  New  York. 
You  grow  hungry  yourself.  The  air  is  delicately 
inviting  in  its  coolness.  " Steward!"  A  brief 
consultation.  Not  so  bad  as  you  expected. 
Omelet,  beefsteak,  compote.  Wine  or  beer. 
The  price  is  sixty  cents,  American  money.  But 
hang  the  cost!  As  you  eat  you  stare  across 
a  flat,  beautiful  land  and  recall  Sir  Seymour 
Haden's  remark  that  some  French  landscapes 
are  immoral.  If  this  is  so,  then  the  Dutch  land 
scape  is  eminently  moral.  The  lines  are  formal ; 
there  is  no  suggestion  of  the  exotic.  Every 
meadow  has  been  a  battle-field  where  man 
fought  the  water  by  miles.  Every  dike  is  a 
lesson.  Holland  is  not  lyric,  as  is  Venice;  hers 
is  a  sober  prose;  coloured,  yet  never  lush.  The 
only  lush  thing  is  the  walking  in  the  country. 
What  fat  glebeland !  What  black  loam  !  Is  it 
230 


LITTLE  HOLLAND 

any  wonder  that  the  salads  are  so  green,  the 
vegetables  so  abundant,  the  flowers  so  bloom 
ing,  the  cattle  so  beefy,  the  sheep  so  muttony, 
the  women  so  fat,  and  the  men  so  tall  ? 

The  Rembrandt  windmill  is  passed;  passed, 
too,  the  miller's  bridge;  and  then  the  steamer 
has  reached  the  Heimanswetering.  Woubrugge, 
with  its  tiny  brick  houses  on  either  side  of  the 
wake,  is  in  view.  A  few  children  regard  with 
lazy  eyes  our  noble  ship.  Grown-up  folk  give 
us  no  attention.  As  we  stop  nowhere  there  is 
nothing  to  be  gained  by  looking  at  us.  The 
Dutch  are  time-saving,  and  we  are  a  thrice-told 
tale  signifying  no  profit.  The  stream  widens 
and  we  have  the  sensation  of  going  out  to  sea. 
It  is  the  Brassemeer,  broad  and  calm,  with 
plenty  of  pleasure  and  fishing  boats  on  its  placid 
bosom.  Steam-yachts  are  no  novelty.  The 
channel  then  narrows  as  we  enter  the  Old 
Wetering;  we  arrive  at  the  circular  canal  arouixd 
the  Haarlemer  meerpolder,  one  of  the  great 
polders  of  Holland.  The  old  Haarlem  Lake  is 
larger  than  the  Brassemeer,  having  an  area  of 
one  hundred  and  ninety-three  square  kilometers. 
Farms,  tilled  land,  roads,  storehouses,  and 
pumping-stations  may  be  seen.  The  windmill 
is  more  ornamental  nowadays,  steam  superseding 
it  in  the  serious  task  of  keeping  the  plains  from 
flooding.  You  easily  understand,  after  looking 
at  this  polder,  the  history  of  the  brave  people 
who  were  capable  of  cutting  away  the  dikes  when 
invaded  by  the  enemy. 

231 


LITTLE  HOLLAND 

Presently  the  Kaager  Lake  is  attained;  the 
village  of  Kaag  is  in  the  middle  distance,  then 
the  Zeil,  and  soon  Leyden  looms  before  you.  It 
is  4:30,  and  you  feel  as  if  your  voyage  of  dis 
covery  had  just  begun.  Only  the  hymn-singing 
of  a  pack  of  geese  who  came  on  board  in  native 
costume  marred  an  almost  perfect  excursion  — 
certainly  more  characteristic  than  the  Marken, 
Volendam,  and  Zaandam  trips.  Best  of  all, 
you  never  leave  the  boat;  you  are  not  persecuted 
by  guides  or  children  crying  "Penny,  lady! 
Penny,  gentleman!"  yet  you  are  so  near  land 
that  you  can  step  ashore,  and  there  are  no  an 
noying,  time-wasting  locks. 

But  in  the  end,  so  feeble  and  infirm  of  purpose 
is  man,  you  tire  of  the  eternal  flatland;  tire  of 
innumerable  views  of  somewhere,  by  God  knows 
whom;  become  excited  at  the  sight  of  the  dis 
tant  dunes,  which  seem  like  hills  on  the  sky-line. 
At  the  mere  thought  of  the  Palisades  a  vision  of 
Himalayas  is  evoked.  The  softness  of  the 
atmosphere  is  marked,  the  light  is  pervasive; 
just  as  set  forth  by  any  Holland  master.  The 
modern  men  have  been  particularly  happy  in 
rendering  this  atmosphere.  Jakob  Maris,  Wil- 
lem  Maris,  Mesdag,  Weissenbruch,  De  Bock 
give  in  their  canvases  the  effect  of  mist,  of  flat 
perspectives,  of  churches  that  stand  out  from 
their  foundation-stones  to  their  spire  with  star 
tling  clearness,  yet  are  miles  distant. 

Auguste  Rodin  loves  Holland  for  its  slowness. 
It  is  in  his  sense  a  "slow"  country.  The  land- 
232 


LITTLE  HOLLAND 

scapes  are  slow,  to  an  andante  tempo;  slow,  but 
thorough.  Outside  of  Rotterdam  and  Amster 
dam  no  one  is  in  a  hurry.  A  land  of  long  nights, 
big,  deep  beds,  heavy  feeding,  heavy  drinking, 
every  movement  calculated,  every  penny  ac 
counted  for  —  and  remember  that  the  Dutch 
two-and-a-halfpenny  piece  is  worth  our  Amer 
ican  cent;  they  think  here  in  cents  and  florins. 
The  florin  contains  one  hundred  pennies.  It  is 
the  Dutchman's  dollar. 

Ill 

HOLLAND   EN  FETE 
(1813-1913) 

When  Henry  James  visited  his  native  land  a 
few  years  ago  he  was  invited  to  a  meeting  of  the 
publishers,  or  was  it  book  agents?  He  sat 
through  a  long  dinner  punctuated  by  much  talk, 
and  when  some  rising  young  author,  Bill  Liver 
pool  or  Mat  Manchester,  I've  forgotten  which, 
asked  the  father  of  What  Masie  Knew  whether 
he  didn't  think  the  affair  altogether  an  interest 
ing  one,  he  ironically  answered : 

"Abysmally  so." 

And  abysmally  interesting  for  me  were  the 
formal  proceedings  which  opened  the  Palace  of 
Peace  at  The  Hague,  in  September,  1913.  It 
was  a  great  day  for  Mr.  Andrew  Carnegie  and 
the  hopeful  persons  who  believe  war  is  to  be 
abolished  by  sentiment,  but  it  was  severe  for 

233 


those  who  had  to  sit  still  while  official  wheels 
went  round  slowly  in  the  newly  opened  building 
out  on  the  old  road  to  Scheveningen  (I  dare  you 
to  pronounce  this  as  the  Dutch  do).  No  doubt 
it  was  a  thrilling  sight  for  the  chief  actors,  but  I 
thought  of  Mr.  James  and  his  fatal  phrase.  De 
profundis!  I  said  to  my  neighbour  more  than 
once,  for  Dutch  pomp  and  ceremony  go  on 
leaden  feet.  The  tempo,  as  they  say  in  music, 
was  andante  throughout  this  lovely  land  of  slow 
landscapes  and  lazy  silhouettes. 

Royalty  was  gracious,  Mr.  Carnegie  smiling, 
and  solemn  gentlemen  sonorously  rumbled.  The 
verbiage  was  interminable.  But  there  is  no  gain 
saying  the  magnificence  of  the  palace.  When 
its  utter  futility  is  finally  demonstrated  I  think 
it  will  make  one  of  the  handsomest  restaurants 
and  cafes  in  all  Europe.  As  such  it  will  be  use 
ful  and  provocative  of  peace. 

The  Paris  Figaro  achieved  the  feat,  without 
parallel  as  far  as  I  know,  of  printing  the  story 
of  a  special  correspondent  in  which  the  name  of 
Carnegie  did  not  occur;  nor  was  this  done  with 
malice  prepense,  for  the  cost  of  the  palace  is 
given,  and  the  fact  is  mentioned  that  because  of 
the  huge  outlay  a  small  admission  is  charged. 
But  of  Mr.  Carnegie's  benefaction  not  a  word. 
I  relate  this  well-nigh  incredible  anecdote  simply 
to  throw  into  high  relief  the  almost  universal 
knowledge  of  the  Carnegie  idea  in  Europe.  In 
every  city  and  hamlet  of  Holland  his  portrait 
is  shown.  American  flags  decorated  the  streets 

234 


LITTLE  HOLLAND 

of  The  Hague  and  adorned  in  company  with  the 
Dutch  colours  every  motor-car.  I  saw  them  at 
Groningen,  Friesland,  and  at  Arnhem,  in  the  vil 
lage  of  Zeist,  and  at  Amsterdam.  There  is  a 
distinct  wave  of  popular  sympathy  for  America 
and  the  Americans.  And  this  is  very  pleas 
ant. 

In  a  certain  sense  all  large  cities  bear  a  strong 
family  resemblance;  it  is  in  the  small  towns 
that  the  curious  traveller  finds  innumerable  dif 
ferences.  Delft  has  its  own  physiognomy,  so 
Utrecht.  Zandvoort  as  a  bathing  resort  is  dis 
tinctly  different  from  Scheveningen,  as  Ostend 
is  different  from  Blankenberghe.  At  Haarlem 
you  see  Frans  Halses,  or  wander  in  the  famous 
Haarlem  wood.  At  Leyden,  after  you  have  ex 
hausted  the  learned  town,  you  go  off  on  one  of 
the  Carsjens  boats  through  the  canals,  patrol 
the  flat  Harlemmer-meer,  see  the  polders,  or  at 
Amsterdam  you  will  visit  the  island  of  Marken, 
not  failing  to  notice  the  picturesque  humbug- 
gery  of  the  peasants  in  full  costume  for  the  benefit 
of  the  tourists  who  believe  in  that  sort  of  theat 
rical  nonsense. 

But  I  confess  that  the  conventional  Holland 
of  the  painters  and  holiday  seekers  is  beginning 
to  pall.  Canals  and  dikes,  spotless  villages  like 
Broek,  the  low  horizons  and  miles  of  melancholy 
dunes  no  longer  interest  me  as  do  the  people,  the 
flowers,  the  magnificent  woods,  and  the  life  of 
the  little  cities — the  Holland  not  known  to  the 
average  visitor,  because  he  hasn't  the  time. 

235 


LITTLE  HOLLAND 

The  magic  of  sails  mysteriously  gliding  through 
walls  of  green  trees  is,  however,  ever  fresh. 

At  The  Hague,  cosmopolitan  as  Paris  and 
London  are  not,  the  Mauritshuis  is  the  chief 
magnet.  There  the  Vermeers  are  wonderful, 
more  wonderful  than  the  Rembrandts,  though 
the  multitude  prefer  that  wooden-legged  bull 
of  Paul  Potter.  In  1909  I  saw  the  two  new  ad 
ditions,  the  Diana  and  the  allegory  of  the  New 
Testament,  but  the  view  of  Delft  is  for  me  more 
fascinating  than  either.  I  have  written  else 
where  at  length  on  the  art  of  Holland.  I  need 
hardly  add  that  the  international  exhibition  of 
sporting  requisites  at  The  Hague  did  not  long 
detain  me.  Far  more  attractive  was  the  ship 
exhibition  (E.  N.  T.  O.  S.)  at  Amsterdam.  This 
was  well  worth  a  visit.  The  development  of 
ships  from  the  Middle  Ages  down  to  the  newest 
achievements  in  battle  cnu'sers  and  ocean  steam 
palaces  were  to  be  seen.  A  comprehensive  show. 
On  either  side  of  a  qanal  was  a  historical  re 
construction  of  old  Amsterdam  houses.  There 
was  a  Luna  Park,  modelled  after  Coney  Island, 
with  shooting  the  chutes  and  many  other  fa 
miliar  diversions  for  the  delectation  of  grown-up 
children.  At  night  the  electric  display  was  gay. 

Amsterdam,  more  than  any  other  Dutch  city, 
has  ill-smelling  canals,  because  the  water  is  stag 
nant;  and  it  has  more  than  its  share  of  nui 
sances.  A  special  chapter  could  be  written  on  the 
noises  of  Holland.  Certain  of  them  are  indige 
nous  to  the  soil.  At  6  A.  M.  you  are  awakened 
236 


LITTLE  HOLLAND 

by  the  banging  of  bakers'  and  butchers'  wagons; 
they  slam  the  lids  of  these  little  carts  after  they 
have  delivered  their  orders.  It  is  like  the  con 
tinual  popping  of  rifles;  then  the  dogs  begin 
to  bark.  Their  name  is  legion.  All  sympathy 
is  due  them  for  their  arduous  toil  —  they  are 
strapped  under  the  various  vehicles  both  for 
draught  and  protection  purposes.  They  growl 
at  every  passer-by,  probably  from  a  sense  of 
duty,  and  they  get  the  nervous  visitor  out  of 
bed  an  hour  earlier  than  is  his  custom. 

Worse  remains,  the  beating  of  rugs  and  car 
pets  in  the  streets  and  open  squares.  Holland 
is  the  cleanest  country  in  the  world  —  though 
Berlin  West  is  cleaner  than  Amsterdam  —  that 
no  one  will  deny,  nevertheless  not  the  most 
hygienic  country;  otherwise  this  intolerable 
stirring  up  of  dust  would  not  be  permitted.  It 
is  the  custom  of  centuries,  and  when  you  com 
plain  a  surprised  look  is  the  usual  answer.  I 
asked,  a  distinguished  scientific  man  why  Am 
sterdam,  with  its  numerous  hospitals,  sanita 
riums,  and  the  like,  could  endure  not  only  the 
noise,  which  is  distracting,  day  and  night  (the 
long  roll  of  artillery  is  the  nearest  approach  to 
this  appalling  racket  made  by  vigorous  blue- 
eyed,  blond-haired  maids),  but  the  clouds  of 
dust  which  fill  your  nostrils  and  eyes  if  you 
venture  abroad.  He  shrugged  his  shoulders. 
Carpet-cleaning  establishments  and  vacuum 
cleaners  were  suggested  as  being  less  destructive 
and  healthier.  I  saw  that  I  was  talking  in  vain. 

237 


LITTLE  HOLLAND 

Hollanders  possess  nerves  of  iron,  and  ages  after 
mankind  has  definitely  conquered  the  air  the 
good  people  of  Holland  will  maltreat  their  rugs 
with  rattan  paddles,  and  likewise  the  ears  of 
their  visitors. 

But  say  these  things  and  you  say  all  that 
is  disagreeable  in  this  miniature  land.  Sober, 
serious,  industrious,  the  people  relax  in  a  natural 
manner,  enjoying  themselves  heartily  on  Sun 
days  and  holidays  from  Dordrecht  to  Leeu- 
warden.  Except  on  state  occasions,  such  as 
historic  pageants,  the  national  costume  in  all 
its  variety  is  seldom  seen.  More's  the  pity,  for 
it  is  very  becoming  to  the  robust  girls,  who  look, 
somehow,  queer  in  modern  attire. 

The  artistic  life  is  satisfying,  and  also  the  in 
tellectual.  With  such  a  world-renowned  genius 
as  Hugo  de  Vries  at  Amsterdam,  and  such  a 
brilliant  neurologist  as  Dr.  C.  U.  Ariens  Kap- 
pers  of  the  Central  Institute  of  Brain  Research 
(Amsterdam),  or  Dubois,  who  discovered  in 
Java  the  so-called  missing  link  (Pithecanthropus 
Erectus)  at  Amsterdam,  to  mention  but  three 
names  with  which  I  am  familiar,  Holland  is  far 
from  singing  small  at  any  international  congress 
of  scientists.  Advanced  ideas  in  sociology  are 
the  rule. 

Among  the  younger  painters  I  found  gratify 
ing  evidences  of  individual  talent.  The  younger 
Israels  will  never  make  us  forget  his  great  father 
Jozef  (whose  masterpiece  is  in  the  Rijks  Gal 
lery),  but  he  is  an  ambitious  artist.  There  are 

238 


LITTLE  HOLLAND 

many  men  who  pattern  after  the  Maris  palettes, 
Jakob  and  Willem,  without  compassing  the  rich 
colour  effects  of  either.  Yet  you  feel  that  Hol 
land  will  not  lose  her  reputation  as  a  colourist  in 
their  hands.  My  favourite  etcher  among  the 
younger  artists  is  Marius  Bauer.  Naturally, 
Vincent  van  Gogh  is  the  master  of  the  new 
school,  the  greatest  Dutchman  of  them  all. 
How  regrettable  is  his  premature  taking-off  you 
feel  when  you  see  his  self-portrait  at  the  Royal 
Museum  in  Amsterdam.  For  other  modern 
artists  one  must  go  to  the  Municipal  Museum. 

As  for  music,  I've  seldom  listened  to  a  better 
band  than  the  Concert  Gebouw,  conducted  by 
the  fiery  and  versatile  Mengelberg  (not  dead). 
The  Amsterdam  choir,  mixed  voices,  is  a  ster 
ling  body  principally  devoted  to  Bach.  Other 
wise,  despite  the  sporadic  visits  of  German 
operatic  organisations,  and  the  presence  all  sum 
mer  at  Scheveningen  of  either  the  Berlin  Phil 
harmonic  or  the  Lamoureux  Orchestra  of  Paris, 
Holland  is  more  than  fond  of  Sousa  marches 
(a  Dutchman  by  the  way)  and  Yankee  ragtime. 
Recently  I  heard  nothing  but  one  tune,  a  famous 
Tenderloin  tune,  whistled  by  the  urchins,  howled 
at  night  by  the  populace,  and  hummed  by 
women.  Its  title  I  don't  know,  but  it's  simply 
entrancing !  Thus  does  America  repay  Holland 
for  its  imported  "old  masters"  (manufactured 
yesterday),  which  are  spread  over  America  since 
the  new  art  tariff  went  into  effect. 

De  Vrouw  was  the  name  of  the  exhibition 

239 


LITTLE  HOLLAND 

devoted  to  woman's  achievement  through  the 
ages.  To  say  it  was  pitiful  would  be  beside  the 
mark  —  the  show  robs  the  achievement  —  and 
the  buildings  erected  by  mere  man  were  equally 
flimsy.  The  pictures  were  amateurish,  the 
sculpture  not  much  better.  One  of  America's 
women  art  exhibitions  would  be  ashamed  to 
put  out  such  work  as  representative.  You 
long  for  Cecilia  Beaux  or  Mary  Cassatt.  In 
the  book  section  Ella  Wheeler  Wilcox  and  Ber 
nard  Shaw  were  the  principal  " feminine"  au 
thors  in  evidence.  Next  to  the  exhibition  was 
the  big  Amsterdam  ballast  works.  Was  this 
intentional  irony  ? 

More  satisfying  was  the  concert  given  under 
Willem  Mengelberg,  in  which  such  women  com 
posers  as  Cornelie  van  Oosterzee,  Anna  Lasu- 
brechts  Vos,  and  Elizabeth  Kuypers  were  heard. 
The  cleverness,  learning,  and  natural  talents 
of  this  trio  were  admirable.  Van  Oosterzee's 
symphony  will  make  its  way.  It  is  the  most 
"important"  musical  composition  from  the  pen 
of  a  woman  that  I  have  thus  far  heard,  and  I 
don't  believe  the  composer  has  ever  set  a  torch 
to  a  hen-house,  slapped  a  cabinet  minister,  or 
blown  up  a  church. 

The  Dutch  tongue  is  comparatively  easy  to 
one  acquainted  with  German  and  English,  but 
it  is  far  from  melodious.  When  spoken  by  the 
veteran  actor  Louis  Bouwmeester,  in  parts  like 
Shylock  or  Julius  Caesar,  it  has  a  certain  har 
mony.  Herman  Heijermans,  whose  Good  Hope 
240 


LITTLE  HOLLAND 

is  known  to  English  playgoers,  is  now  the  man 
ager  of  two  Amsterdam  theatres.  I  enjoyed 
under  his  direction  Allerzielen  (All  Souls)  and 
Ghetto.  I  also  heard  a  Dutch  version  of  Clyde 
Fitch's  The  Woman  in  the  Case  (De  Vrouw  in 
't  Spel).  Shaw's  Doctor's  Dilemma  was  an 
nounced  for  production.  Leonard  van  Noppen, 
Professor  of  the  chair  of  Dutch  Literature,  Co 
lumbia  University,  has  done  much  to  make  the 
English-reading  world  familiar  with  the  great 
epic  of  Von  Vondel,  Luzifer  (with  which  Milton 
was  evidently  familiar  when  he  wrote  Paradise 
Lost),  and  the  prose  of  Douwes  Dekker  (better 
known  as  Multatuli). 

The  younger  Dutchmen  are  unavowedly  in 
fluenced  by  the  newer  French  writers;  also  by 
Wilde  and  Shaw.  For  the  latter  they  cherish  an 
affection,  but  when  a  body  of  Leyden  students 
wrote  him  inviting  him  to  visit  their  venerable 
university  and  lecture  he  tartly  answered  that 
never  would  he  go  to  a  country  that  plundered 
him  of  his  plays,  or  words  to  that  effect.  Since 
then  the  eminent  altruist  gets  his  regular 
royalties,  as  there  is  now  a  copyright  law  in 
operation. 

A  word  could  be  added  about  this  polyglot 
speech  of  the  Hollanders,  whose  English  is 
excellent.  After  the  Russians  they  are  possibly, 
because  of  the  difficulty  of  their  own  language, 
the  most  accomplished  linguists  in  Europe. 
Everywhere  you  will  find  men  and  women  who 
answer  your  questions  in  idiomatic  English. 
241 


LITTLE  HOLLAND 

The  Dutch  cuisine  is  richer  and  more  full- 
flavoured  than  the  German.  Never  go  to  Hol 
land  to  "reduce."  The  wines  imported  from 
France,  a  few  hours  away,  are  cheap  and  sound. 

The  race  itself  runs  to  tall  men  and  women. 
The  girls  are  "daughters  of  the  gods,  divinely 
fair,"  strapping  Alices  in  Wonderland,  though 
the  promise  of  good  looks  in  youth  is  seldom  ful 
filled  in  maturity.  Corpulence  is  not  a  common 
characteristic.  Active,  seldom  phlegmatic,  the 
men  are  more  vivacious  than  the  Teuton.  And 
while  much  "schnapps"  is  drunk  by  a  certain 
class  of  workmen,  wine,  not  beer,  is  the  national 
beverage.  Living,  especially  house  rentals,  is 
much  cheaper  than  in  America.  Everywhere 
the  residences  are  of  brick  or  stone.  The  bath 
room  is  yet  to  become  universal,  but  for  comfort 
and  economy  the  little  cities  of  Holland  are 
without  equal.  The  moral  climate  of  The 
Hague  and  Amsterdam  is  less  torrid  and  friv 
olous  than  that  of  Paris  or  Berlin. 

From  Amsterdam  to  Haarlem  is  only  a  half- 
hour  by  railway;  to  Zandvoort  on  the  North 
Sea  fifteen  minutes  more.  There  is  more  fun, 
natural  and  undisguised,  at  Zandvoort  than  at 
the  mundane  Scheveningen.  The  "plain  peo 
ple"  go  out  on  the  beach  and  dance  to  the  ac 
companiment  of  a  genuine  Hoboken  brass  band 
(yellow-dog  clarinets  and  all),  and  drink  under 
a  tent  on  the  dunes.  Approaching  this  resort, 
you  fancy  yourself  in  a  sort  of  Holland  Switzer 
land;  the  sand-hills  are  sometimes  one  hundred 
242 


LITTLE  HOLLAND 

and  fifty  feet  high.  The  bathing  is  beyond 
criticism,  the  beach  shelving,  with  firm  sand  and 
quite  safe. 

In  Haarlem  Louis  Robert  continues  to  give 
his  biweekly  organ  recitals  in  the  Cathedral  of 
Sint  Bavorek,  playing  upon  the  mellow-toned 
instrument  with  skill  and  sympathy.  I  heard 
one  programme  of  Bach,  Mendelssohn,  and 
Guilmant.  Nothing  will  convince  me  that  mov 
ing  the  Frans  Hals  portraits  from  the  old  Town 
Hall  has  improved  them.  I  visited  a  half  dozen 
times  the  new  museum,  and  an  appropriately 
built  house  it  is,  yet  the  lighting  is  not  as  direct 
as  at  the  former  quarters.  Consequently  the 
•Regent  groups  do  not  come  out  so  brilliantly. 
The  new  Frans  Hals  statue  is  placed  in  a  pretty 
park. 

After  Haarlem,  Utrecht.  There  all  was  peace 
(barring  the  inevitable  rug-hammering),  and  if 
there  were  few  pictures,  and  no  music-making 
(excepting  the  eternal  whistling,  a  trait  of  Hol 
landers,  young  and  old),  there  was  a  little  city  of 
exceeding  charm  quite  its  own.  The  antiquarian 
will  find  in  the  twelfth-century  cathedral  and 
the  numerous  additions  a  perfect  compendium  of 
Gothic  art,  and  for  the  student  of  science  there 
are  several  seats  of  learning.  For  the  flaneur, 
the  writer,  the  scholar,  the  world  forgetting  by 
the  world  forgot,  there  is  a  tranquil  existence 
beyond  compare,  and  if  he  has  the  lust  of  the 
eye  for  the  things  pictorial  then  he  can  gratify 
it  at  his  very  elbow.  The  old  canal,  with  its 

243 


LITTLE  HOLLAND 

houses  underneath;  the  new  canal  and  its  rows 
of  dignified  dwellings;  the  walk  under  broad 
avenues  of  foliage;  the  Malieban;  Wilhelmina 
Park  and  its  umbrageous  attractions,  not  to 
speak  of  the  suburbs;  green  is  everywhere, 
flowers  everywhere,  and  at  every  turn  a  vista 
that  makes  you  envious  of  such  municipal  gov 
ernment  that  has  transformed  a  town  into  a  park. 
There  is  only  one  modern  hotel,  the  Pays-Bas. 

Utrecht  is  not,  for  some  reason,  included  in 
the  ordinary  itinerary  of  the  tourist,  though  only 
thirty-five  minutes  from  Amsterdam.  If  you 
wish  to  go  farther  afield,  there  are  Zeist  and 
Baarn,  both  leafy  paradises  and  only  thirty  min 
utes  away  by  train  or  tram.  At  Baarn  are  a 
number  of  villas,  owned  by  wealthy  people, 
which  seem  ideal.  No  mosquitoes  or  grachten 
(canals)  smells  annoy  you  at  Utrecht.  Your 
nerves  soon  quiet  down.  You  sleep  the  sleep 
of  the  unjust  (the  soundest  of  all)  and  wonder 
as  you  doze  off  why  people  visiting  Holland  rave 
over  windmills  and  canals  instead  of  the  magnif 
icent  woods  and  flower-beds.  Ah,  the  proces 
sional  forests  of  Holland ! 

I  attended  a  cricket-match  (almost  as  sopo 
rific  a  game  as  golf  —  true  sport  for  somnambu 
lists),  and  I  saw  young,  handsome,  well-set-up 
chaps  pulling  in  single  shells  with  sliding  seats 
up  the  Katharina  Singel  (a  broad  canal).  Foot 
ball,  too  —  they  call  it  voetbal  —  is  a  pastime 
much  admired.  Bicycles  are  omnipresent,  the 
roads  for  motoring  almost  faultless. 
244 


LITTLE  HOLLAND 

The  festal  event  of  the  season  at  Utrecht  was 
the  exhibition  of  North  Netherland  art  previous 
to  1575.  It  was  a  profoundly  significant  gath 
ering.  Such  masters  as  Lucas  van  Leyden  (in 
black  and  white  as  well  as  in  colour),  Jan  van 
Scorel,  Engelbrechtzen,  Jacob  Cornelisz,  and  a 
flock  of  unknown  painters,  beginning  with  the 
master  of  the  Death  of  Mary,  were  represented. 
Archaic  in  technique,  these  ancient  panels  and 
canvases  contained  a  wealth  of  sentiment,  relig 
ious  feeling,  and  sincerity  in  the  delineation  of 
nature.  You  see,  not  without  wonder,  how  the 
new  men  of  yesterday  and  to-day,  the  Neo- 
Impressionists  and  Cubists,  have  boldly  pilfered 
the  technical  procedure  of  these  old  fellows  and 
have  vainly  endeavoured  to  trap  the  emotion 
and  recover  their  "innocence  of  the  eye."  So 
many  Scorels  I  never  saw  assembled.  I  have 
long  since  registered  my  admiration  for  this 
painter's  Mary  Magdalen,  which  formerly  hung 
in  the  Town  Hall,  Haarlem,  but  is  now  in  the 
Rijks  Museum. 

A  note  made  reminds  me  that  Jan  van  Scorel 
was  born  at  Schoorel,  near  Alkmaar,  in  the  year 
1493.  He  studied  under  Jacob  Cornelisz  at 
Amsterdam  and  with  Jean  de  Maubeuge  at 
Utrecht.  He  died  in  that  place,  1562.  He  vis 
ited  Albrecht  Diirer  at  Nuremberg  and  resided 
for  a  time  in  Italy.  His  portraits  are  undoubt 
edly  Italianate  in  expression,  and  the  portrait 
of  Bishop  George  van  Egmont  in  the  Utrecht 
Gallery  is  no  exception.  It  is  a  panel  picture 

245 


LITTLE  HOLLAND 

and  cracked,  but  otherwise  in  fair  condition. 
The  Lucas  van  Leydens  were  the  glory  of  the 
exhibition. 

I  forgot  to  say  that  the  clangorous  chimes  of 
the  cathedral  in  Utrecht  are  so  out  of  tune  that 
they  remind  me  of  castor-oil  in  buttermilk. 

No  great  composer  has  yet  emerged  from  Hol 
land,  but  her  instrumentalists  are  celebrated. 
As  befits  the  grave  diapason  of  national  feeling, 
the  violoncello  is  sedulously  studied.  We  need 
only  recall  the  elemental  power  of  Fritz  Giese 
and  the  astounding  virtuosity  of  Anton  Hek- 
king  (is  it  necessary  to  mention  the  sonorous 
Josef  Hollman?);  Dutch  'cellists  in  the  modern 
orchestra  are  as  indispensable  as  Belgian  wood 
wind  players. 

A  word  might  not  be  amiss  about  the  high 
average  of  culture;  the  Dutch  are  omnivorous 
readers  in  a  half  dozen  languages,  and,  thanks 
to  their  proximity  to  Brussels,  Berlin,  Paris,  and 
London,  not  to  mention  their  newspapers,  are 
a  well-informed  people  in  matters  contemporary. 

It  was  a  warm  September  Saturday  morning 
when  in  company  with  Dr.  Kappers  I  met  that 
truly  great  scientist  and  most  modest  man,  Hugo 
de  Vries,  and  in  his  own  "experimental  gar 
den"  at  the  Amsterdam  Botanic  Garden  (Hortus 
Siccus,  is  the  legend  over  the  gates).  Professor 
de  Vries  —  he  is  professor  at  the  University  of 
Amsterdam  — -  looked  very  well  after  his  long 
visit  to  America,  where  in  New  York  he  was 
invited  by  President  Butler  to  join  the  teaching 
246 


LITTLE  HOLLAND 

faculty  of  Columbia  College.  He  wisely  de 
clined  the  honour,  notwithstanding  the  horti 
cultural  temptations  of  Bronx  Park.  But, 
being  a  canny  Dutchman,  he  hammered  this 
offer  into  the  heads  of  the  Dutch  authorities 
and  was  given  a  new  and  more  commodious 
building  in  which  to  work  out  his  now-famous 
doctrine  of  the  mutation  of  plant  and  flower 
life.  He  admires  Luther  Burbank  and  thus 
sums  up  the  difference  in  their  respective  ex 
periments:  "Burbank  crosses  species,  I  seek  to 
create  new  ones."  He  does  create  new  species, 
does  this  benevolent-looking  Klingsor  with  the 
flowers  in  his  magic  garden.  But  it  is  white, 
not  black,  magic.  He  lets  nature  follow  her 
capricious  way,  giving  her  from  time  to  time  a 
gentle  hint;  a  sort  of  floral  eugenics.  I  saw 
eight-leaved  clovers  and  was  told  that  many 
more  leaves  may  bud,  as  the  clover  was  origi 
nally  a  stalk  full  of  leaves.  For  the  supersti- 
tiously  inclined  there  are  three,  four,  five,  six, 
and  seven  leaved  varieties.  The  evening  prim 
rose  (^Eonthera  lamarckiana)  is  at  present  the 
object  of  Professor  de  Vries's  experiments.  Cer 
tainly  this  yellow  flower  means  more  to  him 
than  it  did  to  Wordsworth's  Peter.  He  ties  up 
its  petals  in  tiny  bags  and,  protected  from  ma 
rauding  birds  and  bees,  and  no  doubt  being 
bored  by  its  solitude  (though  pistil  and  stamen 
remain),  it  begins  to  put  forth  a  new  species. 
With  my  own  eyes  I  witnessed  the  miracle  of  a 
half  dozen  flowers  in  the  world  that  were  not 
247 


LITTLE  HOLLAND 

in  existence  a  year  ago.  That  is  creating  life, 
indeed,  and  even  Sir  Oliver  Lodge  must  give  his 
assent  to  the  statement.  The  new  flower  is  a 
"constant,"  it  goes  on  reproducing  itself,  but 
at  times  the  back  of  a  leaf  shows  a  struggle  to 
revert  to  its  old  pupillaceous  state.  Darwin 
taught  that  evolution  is  orderly,  progressive, 
slow,  without  jumps  —  nature  never  leaps; 
there  are  no  sudden  miracles.  De  Vries  proves 
the  reverse  —  the  miracle  had  taken  place  over 
night  in  his  experiments;  nature  strikes  out 
swiftly,  blindly,  apparently  without  selection. 
The  age  of  miracles  is  not  past.  I  saw  what  he 
called  a  rosette,  a  green  plant-like  production, 
and  was  told  that  it  was  a  new  birth  of  the  com 
monplace  primrose  —  in  Alabama  he  gathered 
his  parent  flowers.  Really  you  think  of  the  "  Dr. 
Moreau"  of  H.  G.  Wells  (his  most  arresting 
book),  and  wonder  if  such  things  could  be  pos 
sible  in  the  human  order.  De  Vries  is  the  most 
significant  figure  in  the  history  of  science  since 
Darwin. 

He  has  just  published  a  big  volume  concern 
ing  his  travels  and  experiments  while  in  Amer 
ica.  His  great  work  on  Mutation  was  trans 
lated  long  ago,  but  it  is  principally  for  stu 
dents.  I  can  recommend,  however,  a  pamphlet 
of  thirty-seven  pages,  entitled  Afstammings  en 
Mutatis  —  Leer  (published  in  the  Levensvragen 
series  at  Baarn,  near  Utrecht,  Holland),  as  con 
taining  in  crystallised  form  the  doctrine  of  mu 
tation,  set  forth  by  its  author  with  a  wealth  of 
248 


LITTLE   HOLLAND 

argument  and  in  his  usual  clarity  of  style.  Pro 
fessor  de  Vries  speaks  and  writes  English  fluently 
and  idiomatically,  but  he  is  too  immersed  in  his 
work  to  translate  his  prose  into  our  language. 

I  was  loath  to  leave  the  presence  of  this  man 
who,  in  the  Indian  summer  of  his  life,  looks  like 
a  bard  and  philosopher,  summoning  strange 
and  beautiful  flowers  from  the  vasty  deep  of 
nature.  He  is  an  exalted  member  of  the  most 
honourable  profession  in  the  world,  a  gentle 
gardener  of  genius. 


249 


IV 

BELGIAN  ETCHINGS 
I 

BRUSSELS 

THE  man  who  first  called  Brussels  le  petit 
Paris  must  have  been  imbibing  many  bottles 
of  the  fiery  Burgundy  for  which  the  city  is  re 
nowned.  Brussels  is  only  a  mock-turtle  Paris. 
The  cookery  is  more  savoury,  less  sophisticated 
and  oilier  than  in  Paris.  Naturally  we  allude 
to  the  Flemish  cuisine,  not  to  the  imitation 
Parisian  restaurants  that  flourish  in  all  the  lead 
ing  hotels.  Stews,  hotchpotches,  meats  smoth 
ered  in  onions,  soups  so  thick  that  a  spoon  will 
stand  upright  in  them,  sauerkraut,  hot  sal 
ads,  sea  food  cooked  with  plenty  of  butter  are 
Brussels  specialties.  Birds  abound  in  season 
and  out,  and  as  to  the  quality  of  the  wine  there 
is  no  doubt.  Clarets  and  Burgundies  of  au 
thentic  vintage  are  to  be  had  at  moderate 
prices  in  certain  tavernes  and  restaurants,  but 
not  at  the  hotels  or  in  resorts  frequented  by 
tourists.  The  difference  between  Holland  and 
Belgium,  if  one  were  cynical,  would  be  to  note 
250 


BELGIAN  ETCHINGS 

that  in  the  latter  country  they  never  serve  fish 
after  the  meat.  That  is  a  Dutch  custom  which  is 
still  a  mystery  to  us.  But  the  Belgian  kitchen  is 
richer  than  the  Hollandish,  and  the  wines  bet 
ter  and  cheaper.  On  the  other  hand,  the  cafes 
are  not  as  comfortable.  Those  long  reading- 
tables  with  student-lamps,  which  so  humanise 
a  cafe,  are  all  through  Holland;  in  Brussels  the 
cafe  is  rather  cheerless.  The  majority  of  hotels 
are  old  palaces  and  mansions  altered  into  very 
uncomfortable  rooms,  where  a  bathroom  is  bur 
ied  in  a  wall  as  if  bathing  were  some  forbidden 
luxury.  What  these  houses  are  like  in  the 
bleak,  rainy  winter  one  may  imagine.  The  hor 
rors  of  hotel  life  must  be  experienced  here  to  the 
full.  And  that  "M.  the  ch'rector,"  who  seems 
to  eat,  drink,  and  sleep  in  his  frock  coat  and 
beard  —  has  his  bland  smile  a  parallel  on  the 
Continent? 

The  fact  is  Brussels  caters  largely  to  English 
people.  It  always  has  been  a  favourite  city. 
And  as  the  English  are  stubborn  in  their  ad 
herence  to  antiquated  customs,  Brussels  hotel 
keepers  consider  themselves  very  a  la  mode  be 
cause  the  majority  of  their  guests  are  from  Great 
Britain.  Americans  come  here  in  throngs,  but 
they  are  birds  of  passage,  their  season  is  brief, 
while  the  English  matron  with  her  daughters 
winters  at  the  pensions  and  hotels,  for  the  price 
of  living  is  cheap.  The  English  are  better 
liked,  better  understood;  they  don't  grumble 
as  do  the  Americans  over  the  cruel  dampness 

251 


BELGIAN  ETCHINGS 

and  the  unsanitary  conditions  of  the  hotels  and 
pensions.  They  know.  They  come  from  Eng 
land  and  they  have  eaten  its  soggy  cookery. 

But  Brussels  is  gay.  Narrow  and  provincial 
and  noisy  as  it  is,  it  enjoys  itself,  whether  in  the 
lower  town  crowded  with  cafes  or  in  the  upper 
with  its  broad  avenues,  tree-lined,  vast  squares, 
palaces,  and  museums.  The  cafes  are  the  social 
barometers  of  the  place.  At  seven  o'clock  it  is 
difficult  to  get  a  seat  for  your  consommation, 
and  in  the  restaurants  there  is  a  waiting  list. 
Again  we  may  remark  that  the  food  is  capital. 
A  glutton  of  renown  once  drew  up  an  itinerary 
for  a  week  —  a  grub  route  which,  while  it  makes 
the  mouth  water,  would  be  apt  to  produce  a 
formidable  indigestion.  For  some  reason,  pre 
sumably  climatic,  one  is  hungrier  than  in  New 
York.  Two  hours  after  a  heavy  dinner  you  will 
see  people  swallowing  sandwiches.  Perhaps  the 
wine  and  beer  aid  the  metabolic  processes. 
Chicken,  so  much  cheaper  in  Holland,  is  very 
good  in  Belgium.  Fresh  mushrooms  are  in 
vogue,  but  Brussels  sprouts  we  did  not  see  ex 
cept  the  comical  little  ones  on  the  chins  of  pale 
young  men  —  all  smoking  the  deadly  Belgian 
tobacco. 

The  Brussels  woman  runs  to  waist.  Good 
cheer  and  the  admiration  of  the  men  for  ladies 
of  generous  proportions  have  much  to  do  with 
their  size  and  weight.  They  dress  a  shade  more 
exaggerated  than  in  Paris.  If  Paris  wears  big 
hats,  Brussels  sports  cart-wheels.  At  the  pres- 
252 


BELGIAN  ETCHINGS 

ent  time  the  edict  as  to  the  suppression  of  the 
monster  head-gear  has  evidently  not  reached  the 
ears  of  Brussels  dames  and  daughters.  They 
are  all  hat  and  feathers  and  shoulders.  The 
Rubens  woman  rules.  The  very  men  you  rub 
shoulders  with  might  have  stepped  from  a 
Jacob  Jordaens  canvas.  Women's  rights  here? 
Why,  every  woman  has  the  right  of  way  in  the 
street,  in  the  cafes,  and  in  conversation.  A 
pleasing  sight  it  is  to  see  the  portly  mother,  the 
undersized  husband  (meek  but  thirsty),  the 
flock  of  children,  the  family  friend  enter  a  res 
taurant  of  a  Sunday  night.  The  function  begins 
with  due  solemnity.  The  waiter  is  summoned 
and  submits  to  a  cross-fire  of  questions.  Sunday 
only  comes  once  a  week  and  there  must  be  no 
hitches  on  the  programme.  Soup,  fish,  meat, 
vegetables,  salad,  dessert,  and  wines  are  con 
sidered  as  if  a  national  crisis  were  impending. 
Then  the  overture  sounds,  the  curtain  rises,  and 
the  play  begins.  It  is  a  jolly  comedy.  Good 
humour,  laughter,  hearty  appetites  rule.  A 
dyspeptic  American  is  filled  with  dismay  or 
consumed  with  envy.  They  go  to  their  homes, 
these  worthy  people,  and  sleep  the  sleep  of  the 
overfed. 

The  children  are  without  exaggeration  very 
pretty,  curly,  blond,  stout,  with  cheeks  blazing 
with  colour.  They  play  in  the  streets,  roll  in 
front  of  honking  automobiles,  dodge  tram-cars, 
splash  in  the  fountains,  and  make  more  noise 
than  the  rug  beaters  of  Rotterdam.  (Rugs  are 

253 


BELGIAN  ETCHINGS 

not  abused  in  Belgium,  nor  are  there  many 
bicycles,  the  motor-car  is  sovereign.)  Brussels 
is  not  clean;  that  is,  not  as  clean  as  Holland,  nor 
are  the  inhabitants  as  spruce  as  the  Dutch. 
They  are  in  a  civic  sense  conceited.  Too  many 
tourists  have  spoiled  the  broth  of  their  polite 
ness.  They  are  anxious  to  do  you  a  service  for 
a  slight  remuneration.  Beggars  are  more  plen 
tiful  than  in  Holland;  unquestionably  there  is 
more  poverty.  The  shops  are  small,  but  cheap 
is  shopping,  so  womankind  says.  Gloves,  per 
fume,  millinery  are  sought  after  by  strangers. 

When  a  big  fire  automobile  whizzed  by  con 
taining  something  that  looked  like  a  douche, 
an  honest  gentleman  asked  us  with  ill-stifled 
pride  if  New  York  could  show  any  such  miracle. 
For  answer  we  went  to  the  fire,  a  piffling  cigarette 
affair,  and  witnessed  the  Flemish  temperament 
working  at  top  speed.  The  spectacle  was  im 
pressive.  Not  apparently  as  excitable  as  the 
Gallic  race,  the  Brussels  men  and  women  chanted 
at  fullest  lung  power  a  sort  of  mixed  choral,  with 
crazy  Flemish  counterpart  for  one  thousand 
voices  da  capo.  The  vocal  sounds  were  the  out 
pouring  of  admiration  from  overheated  hearts 
for  the  pompiers.  When  the  Spritze  —  we  can 
think  of  no  better  title  —  sent  forth  a  garden- 
hose  stream,  joy  was  unconfined.  There  was 
more  enthusiasm  than  on  a  wet  Sunday  in 
Versailles  when  the  fountains  begin  to  spurt  and 
the  band  to  play.  Unappeased,  our  Belgian 
acquaintance  asked  for  further  information. 

254 


BELGIAN  ETCHINGS 

The  New  York  Fire  Department  was  evidently 
a  myth  manufactured  at  the  moment,  the  popu 
lation  figures  pure  lying.  Good  old  soul,  within 
his  bosom  beat  true  patriotism.  They  stand 
in  the  streets  here  in  deep  water  watching  the 
cinematograph  advertisements  as  did  their 
fathers  the  Punch-and-Judy  shows. 

The  bells  are  not  so  insistent  as  those  of  Ant 
werp  and  Bruges.  But  they  may  be  heard. 
One  church  rings  the  hours  on  the  half  and  re 
peats  the  number  when  the  regular  hour  is 
reached.  Why?  Aren't  we  galloping  to  eter 
nity  fast  enough?  Why  should  eight-thirty 
sound  nine,  and  nine  be  sounded  over  again  at 
the  real  hour?  Sunday  is  the  best  day  to  see 
the  people  in  gala.  There  is  dancing  in  the  open 
in  some  quarters  of  the  town  during  the  Ker- 
messe  —  as  is  the  case  at  Antwerp.  In  the 
Grande  Place  opposite  the  magnificent  Hotel 
de  Ville  —  one  of  the  greatest  squares  in  Europe 
—  on  Sunday  mornings  there  is  a  bird-and- 
flower  market  until  midday.  From  narrow 
side  streets  comes  the  atrocious  singing  of  the 
cafe  chantants.  Hobnailed  shoes  clatter  over 
the  stones,  parrots  scream,  women  chaffer,  and 
across  the  way  is  the  noble  facade  of  the  old 
building.  At  the  Theatre  de  la  Monnaie  we 
heard  a  mediocre  performance  of  Massenet's 
Manon.  Second-rate  singers  and  an  excellent 
orchestra. 

The  parks  are  pleasant  and  the  view  from  the 
upper  town  inspiring,  while  the  first  glimpse  of 

255 


BELGIAN  ETCHINGS 

the  Palace  of  Justice  evokes  erratic  architec 
ture.  It  is  one  of  the  largest  and  most  imposing 
buildings  in  the  world.  The  Cathedral,  Sts. 
Michel  and  Gudule,  is  a  fine  thirteenth-century 
Gothic  structure.  It  is  not  a  bad  plan  to  stop 
at  Malines  on  the  way  down  from  Antwerp. 
The  old  schedule  of  fifty  minutes  has  been  re 
duced  to  thirty-six  minutes  by  the  trein-block. 
Malines  or  Mechlin  is  not  far  from  Brussels,  and 
the  paintings  of  Rubens  in  the  churches  of  St. 
Jean  and  Notre  Dame  make  the  trip  a  notable 
one,  setting  aside  the  picturesqueness  of  the 
town  and  its  famous  lace-making  industry. 

Flowers  are  plentiful  and  there  is  no  danger 
of  conversation  perishing.  As  a  fine  art  here 
we  cannot  pretend  to  judge.  We  believe  that 
the  American  woman's  speaking  voice  has  been 
too  much  criticised,  not  only  by  Henry  James 
but  also  by  genuine  Americans.  The  Flemish 
and  Walloon  voice  is  loud,  is  often  raised  to 
screaming  with  the  women,  and  noisy  in  the 
case  of  men.  As  for  the  dogs,  poor  overworked 
animals  (the  Belgians  are  not  so  kind  to  ani 
mals  as  the  Dutch),  dogs  here  haul  heavy 
burdens;  we  often  wished  their  recurrent  nerve 
could  be  severed,  so  as  to  still  their  continual 
barking. 

The  general  aspect  of  the  street  is  animated. 
Life  does  not  run  at  slow  tempo  in  Brussels.  It 
is  gay  and  it  is  not  a  little  Paris.  But  the  large 
army  of  domino-playing  shopkeepers  and  bour 
geois  give  it  a  philistine  aspect  on  holidays. 
256 


BELGIAN  ETCHINGS 

As  one  American  remarked  on  a  hot  Sunday: 
"Come  now,  doesn't  all  Europe  remind  one  of 
East  Grand  Street  on  a  Saturday  night?" 

II 
LITTLE  CITIES  AND  THE  BEACHES 

The  staid  old  Flemish  town  of  Malines,  bet 
ter  known  to  Americans  as  Mechlin,  where  they 
make  the  lace,  has  been  pluming  itself  on  an 
exposition  which  opened  in  August  and  lasted 
months.  The  affair  bears  the  following  title: 
Exposition  des  anciens  metiers  d'art  Ma- 
linois,  d'art  religieux  de  la  province  d'Anvers 
et  de  folklore  local.  It  is  exactly  what  it  pre 
tends  to  be,  an  exhibition  devoted  to  old  pic 
tures,  sculpture,  tapestry,  embroidery,  jewellery, 
pewter  ware,  iron  ware,  bronze,  brass,  clocks, 
bells,  gilded  leather,  lace,  ecclesiastical  vest 
ments,  sacred  vessels,  manuscripts,  apothecary's 
mortars  and  what-not.  A  more  fascinating  col 
lection  we  never  viewed,  not  even  at  the  Bruges 
exposition  of  1900.  This  exposition  at  Marines 
is  under  royal  patronage;  also  churchly,  his 
Eminence  Cardinal  Archbishop  Mercier  repre 
senting  the  latter.  There  are  about  forty-five 
old  paintings,  some  on  panels,  though  none  of 
magisterial  importance.  Brabant  once  occupied 
an  important  position  in  the  history  of  the  fine 
arts,  beginning  with  Jean  de  Woluwe  in  the 
fourteenth  century.  There  are  Bruges,  Ghent, 

257. 


BELGIAN  ETCHINGS 

and  Tournai  with  the  Van  Eycks  and  Robert 
Campin,  called  the  Master  of  Flemalle;  Brus 
sels  with  Bernard  van  Orley  and  Roger  van  der 
Weyden  (De  la  Pasture) ;  Louvain  with  Thierry 
Bouts ;  Antwerp  with  Quentin  Matsys  —  not  to 
mention  Rubens  or  Van  Dyck  —  and  Malines 
with  Master  Vrancke  van  Lint  and  the  Van 
Battele. 

There  is  a  panel  in  the  Malines  show  attrib 
uted  to  Robert  Campin  and  a  Descent  from  the 
Cross  given  to  Van  der  Weyden.  Also  a  strik 
ing  triptych,  The  Legend  of  St.  Anne,  of  the 
Antwerp  school,  sixteenth  century.  Michel 
Coxcie  is  here,  also  a  J.  Patinir,  the  latter  with 
his  characteristic  blues.  A  Bernard  van  Orley 
(?)  represents  Man  Under  the  Reigns  of  Law  and 
Grace.  There  are  several  Francks.  Velvet 
Breughel  is  present,  and  a  Virgin  with  the  In 
fant,  by  Giovanni  Bellini.  This  Italian  panel 
is,  to  say  the  least,  rather  questionable.  The 
sculpture  is  for  the  most  part  in  wood  and  is 
marvellous.  There  are  rooms  arranged  as  at 
the  Metropolitan  Museum  so  as  to  show  the 
precise  manner  of  living  at  the  period.  There 
is  no  mistaking  the  Flemish  kitchen  or  the  din 
ing-room,  with  their  massive  tables  capable  of 
holding  barons  of  beef  and  the  huge  tankards 
of  the  mighty  drinkers.  The  finest  tapestry 
on  a  large  scale  is  sixteenth-century  Brussels 
make,  depicting  episodes  in  the  life  of  St.  Eliza 
beth  of  Hungary. 

Just  off  the  lace  room  we  saw  an  old  woman 

258 


BELGIAN  ETCHINGS 

sitting  near  a  window  making  lace.  She  must 
have  been  one  hundred  years  old,  though  her 
eyes  were  youthful  and  her  hands,  instead  of 
skinny  claws,  were  plump  and  looked  like  those 
of  a  piano  virtuoso.  She  was  very  industrious 
with  her  bobbins,  her  fingers  working  with 
nervous  agility;  in  a  doorway  a  painter  had 
planted  his  easel  and  was  painting  her.  You 
fancied  yourself  in  the  Middle  Ages,  with  die 
Meistersinger  around  the  corner  serenading  mine 
host  of  De  Goude  Kroone.  But  if  you  walked 
away  and  then  happened  to  enter  the  low-ceil- 
inged  room  from  another  side  you  would  find, 
as  we  did,  the  gay  old  lady  with  her  venerable 
hands  in  her  lap  and  conversing  with  the  painter, 
who  was  quite  idle.  A  bit  of  a  disappointment, 
yet  not  without  its  compensation  from  the  pic 
turesque  view-point.  The  carefully  prepared 
mise  en  scene  is  one  of  the  features  of  the  show. 
Malines  has  become  hopelessly  commercial, 
therefore  thriving.  But  apart  from  the  fine 
Van  Dyck,  the  altar-piece  at  St.  Rombold's,  it 
is  no  longer  as  interesting  as  it  was.  Bruges 
beats  it  to  a  standstill  when  it  comes  to  a  ques 
tion  of  atmosphere.  There  are  canals  enough, 
forsooth,  though  they  are  prosaic  and  muddy. 
When  we  reached  the  train  that  took  us  back 
to  Antwerp,  a  matter  of  twenty  minutes,  the 
official  thermometer  registered  ninety-two  de 
grees.  No  wonder  the  waiter  of  a  near-by  cafe 
slept  calmly  in  the  boskage.  No  wonder  the 
beer  was  hot  and  placid.  No  wonder  we  were 


BELGIAN  ETCHINGS 

glad  to  escape.  The  fields  in  Belgium  are 
burned  up  by  the  too-fervent  sun  of  last  sum 
mer.  The  trees  are  grey  and  dusty  looking; 
no  silver  gleams  from  the  network  of  canals. 
As  for  Antwerp,  it  was  with  genuine  dismay  that 
the  pilgrims  from  America  found  a  weltering 
heat  and,  horrible  to  relate,  mosquitoes  of  the 
true-blue  New  Jersey  breed.  They  sang  and 
stung  with  an  avid  earnestness  that  betrayed 
their  origin.  No  doubt  they  came  over  on  the 
steamships  from  New  York.  All  Europe  is 
suffering  from  them  and  another  superstition 
is  vanished,  that  there  are  no  mosquitoes  in 
Europe.  The  Europeans  now  know  the  lux 
uries  of  an  American  August.  At  Antwerp  they 
say  the  pests  came  from  Asia;  but  they  prob 
ably  breed  out  in  the  mud-flats  of  the  Scheldt 
and  thence  overspread  the  country  like  a  new 
plague  from  Egypt. 

There  is  no  denying  the  fact  that  Antwerp  is 
a  noisy  city,  with  its  cathedral  chimes  at  first 
an  attraction  and  after  twenty-four  hours  a 
nuisance.  Bells  that  ring  every  seven  minutes 
soon  become  intolerable  to  modern  ears.  Be 
sides,  these  chimes  play  secular  music,  arranged 
for  them  by  two  well-known  Belgian  composers, 
Jan  Blockx  and  Peter  Benoit,  not  exactly  good 
material.  We  recall  one  maddening  sequence, 
a  run  in  double  chromatic  sixths,  not  one  bell 
in  tune  with  another,  a  nightmare  when  heard 
in  the  small  hours.  Bruges  suffers  from  the 
same  dire  noises.  In  the  old  times  bells  not 
260 


BELGIAN  ETCHINGS 

only  summoned  the  faithful  to  worship  but 
warded  off  tempests,  exorcised  demons  and 
succubi,  and  announced  to  the  fugitive  that 
sanctuary  was  nigh.  But  in  this  century  their 
tintinnabulation  gets  on  the  nerves.  The  na 
tives  have  no  nerves;  neither  have  the  hardy 
Britons,  who  prowl  the  curved  streets  of  Bruges 
or  peep  and  botanise  in  the  churchyards.  It 
is  the  semineurasthenic  American  who  is  the 
sufferer,  and  after  being  aurally  bombarded  by 
the  monsters  of  the  Bruges  belfry  he  cannot  help 
remembering  that  the  Chinese  torture  political 
prisoners  by  placing  them  bound  under  a  big 
bell  and  literally  tolling  them  to  death.  If 
Edgar  Poe  had  lived  in  Bruges  he  would  have 
added  this  line  to  his  jingling  Bells:  O  the 
binging  and  the  banging  of  the  hellsbells  of 
Bruges. 

We  heard  the  celebrated  Tony  Nauwelaerts, 
champion  bell  player  of  Belgium,  play  the 
chimes  at  Bruges.  As  music  it  was  horrible  for 
sensitive  ears,  but  as  an  exhibition  of  athletic 
skill  it  was  excellent.  Mendelssohn's  Spring  Song 
taken  at  a  funereal  tempo  was  one  piece  and 
later  came  the  inevitable  Chimes  of  Normandy. 
It  was  odd  to  hear  a  tune  from  Traviata  and  a 
few  bars  of  what  seemed  intended  for  Put  Down 
One  and  Carry  Two  from  Victor  Herbert's 
operetta  Babes  in  Toyland  at  Bruges.  You 
can  endure  the  solemn  tolling  of  the  hours  be 
tween  now  and  eternity,  but  latter-day  tunes 
are  a  synchronism. 


BELGIAN  ETCHINGS 

We  saw  a  little  Kermesse  one  hot  Sunday 
afternoon  at  Hoboken,  a  suburb  of  Antwerp. 
The  joyous  creaking  carousel,  the  hokey-pokey 
ice-cream  man,  a  small  army  of  children  yelling 
and  dancing  evoked  a  picture  of  Coney  Island, 
a  few  thousand  miles  away.  Some  men  in 
velveteens  overcome  by  slumber  and  gin  lay  in 
the  middle  of  the  road;  the  dogs  sniffed  them 
and  went  their  way;  the  tram  engineers  merely 
smiled.  Yet  drunkenness  is  by  no  means  as 
prevalent  in  Belgium  as  it  was  ten  years  ago. 
A  determined  effort  on  the  part  of  the  church 
has,  comparatively  speaking,  driven  out  the 
schnapps  or  gin  drinkers.  Sunday  is  a  day  of 
piety,  followed  by  harmless  recreation.  People 
flock  to  the  churchyards,  for  the  cult  of  the 
dead  is  sedulously  practised,  or  to  the  New 
Park  in  Antwerp,  a  vast  tract  of  uncultivated 
meadows  and  trees.  The  summer  proved  dis 
astrous  to  the  foliage,  and  the  walks  are  thick 
with  dust.  The  most  attractive  spot  in  all  Ant 
werp  for  an  afternoon's  outing  is  unquestionably 
the  zoological  gardens,  behind  the  Central  Sta 
tion.  The  actual  territory  is  small  in  com 
parison  with  the  Bronx  zoo,  but  it  is  agreeably 
laid  out,  and  much  is  made  of  scanty  resources. 
A  new  aquarium  adds  to  the  interest,  although 
it  cannot  be  compared  with  the  one  on  the 
Marina  at  Naples.  The  band  plays;  people 
walk  or  sit  sipping  coffee;  the  air  is  cooler  as 
dusk  approaches,  and  you  feel  at  peace  with  the 
world  despite  the  mosquitoes. 
262 


BELGIAN  ETCHINGS 

The  working  man,  the  street  labourer,  for  ex 
ample,  earns  about  a  dollar  a  day.  We  watched 
a  group  from  our  window  on  the  Place  Verte 
lay  down  some  rails  for  the  tram-cars,  and  the 
amount  of  time  consumed  in  proportion  to  the 
work  performed  was  masterly.  Here  in  prac 
tice  was  to  be  seen  the  prime  concept  of  socialism, 
half  a  day's  work  for  a  whole  day's  wages.  You 
won't  find  this  set  down  so  baldly  in  Marx  or 
in  the  pamphlets  of  his  followers,  but  that  is 
what  socialism,  with  its  protean  forms,  amounts 
to;  a  sort  of  temporal  sabotage,  in  which  one 
man  aids  the  other  in  wasting  the  minutes  of 
his  employers.  They  idly  swept  the  tracks  or 
laid  down  at  an  interval  of  ten  minutes  a  Bel 
gian  block.  It  was  positively  exhilarating  to  see 
these  blond  giants  stare  at  the  neat,  fresh-col 
oured  servant-girls  and  pretend  to  labour.  Oc 
casionally  one  stole  away  and  returned  wiping 
his  lips.  Beer,  sweet  brown  beer,  is  very  cheap 
in  Belgium.  The  country  is  honeycombed  with 
socialism,  and  its  results  are  far  from  assuring. 
Perhaps  there  is  also  a  woman  question;  but 
we  doubt  it,  as  the  women  are  the  whole  shoot 
ing-match  here  —  the  women  and  the  dogs. 
Little  wonder  the  men  have  gracefully  resigned 
all  cares  of  business  into  the  hands  of  the 
women,  who  are  marvels  at  petty  swindling  the 
green  tourist  on  shopping  bent,  and  also  a  great 
aid  to  the  dogs  in  pushing  or  pulling  wagons. 
The  poor  dogs  suffer  for  want  of  water,  other 
wise  are  lusty  and  always  barking. 
263 


BELGIAN  ETCHINGS 

We  were  held  up  on  the  railroad  between 
Ghent  and  Bruges  the  other  evening  for  three 
and  a  half  hours.  Usually  the  trip  takes  only 
forty  minutes  by  the  express.  We  had  visited 
the  Cathedral  of  St.  Bavon  in  Ghent,  had  seen 
where  as  a  boy  Maurice  Maeterlinck  played 
pussy-cat  with  the  late  Georges  Rodenbach; 
had  seen  the  magnificent  Adoration  of  the  Pas 
cal  Lamb  by  the  Van  Eycks,  and  only  regretted 
that  old  Mottez  had  died  and  that  his  once-cel 
ebrated  restaurant  on  the  Place  d'Armes  had 
disappeared;  nevertheless  we  felt  that  the  day 
had  not  been  wasted,  when  the  annoyance  of 
spending  several  hours  on  the  rails  outside  of 
Bruges  came  as  a  reminder  that  accidents  will 
happen  in  the  best  regulated  of  systems.  A 
passenger  express  from  Ostend  had  overturned 
three  freight  cars  of  the  usual  match-wood  va 
riety  common  to  these  parts  in  the  Bruges  station. 
The  excitement  was  terrific.  An  accident  had 
never  before  occurred  in  this  town;  that  is,  in 
the  memory  of  the  oldest  inhabitant.  The  sta 
tion  force  was  demoralised.  Not  a  thing  was 
done  for  half  an  hour.  An  eye-witness  relates 
that  for  at  least  that  length  of  time  the  head 
man  and  his  assistants  ran  about  like  decap 
itated  chickens,  waving  ineffectual  wings,  or 
arms,  and  exclaiming  mightily.  Then  it  oc 
curred  to  some  bright  person  that  trains  were 
being  held  up,  fast  trains  from  and  to  Brussels 
and  Antwerp  and  Paris,  from  Ostend.  If  a  few 
soldiers  had  been  sent  for  from  the  city  garrison 
264 


BELGIAN  ETCHINGS 

the  rails  would  have  been  clear  in  an  hour. 
About  nine  o'clock,  five  hours  after  the  mishap, 
the  ways  were  free.  About  two  hundred  and 
fifty  trains  a  day  pass  through  the  cramped  sta 
tion.  Luckily  they  are  building  a  larger  one 
outside  the  town.  We  wished  to  get  out  of  our 
train  and  walk  in  from  Oostcamp,  but  the  con 
ductor  said  no;  such  a  procedure,  simple  as  it 
seemed,  would  have  upset  the  entire  system 
from  Brussels  to  Bruges.  Did  we  not  have  to 
surrender  our  tickets  to  an  official  at  the  latter 
place?  There  is  red  tape  for  you.  At  last 
twenty-five  trains  were  halted  within  sight  of  the 
lights  of  Bruges,  and  not  a  human  escaped. 

The  old  town  is  as  charming  as  ever,  with  its 
walks  under  the  immemorial  trees  of  the  ram 
parts  fringed  by  sombre  canals,  the  scum  on 
whose  surface  is  a  pistachio  green.  There  is 
more  noise  than  formerly  and  the  city  sadly 
suffers  for  the  want  of  a  first-rate  hotel.  There 
are  several  glorified  boarding-houses  with  more 
or  less  indifferent  imitations  of  a  French  cuisine; 
whereas  the  real  Flemish  cooking  is  preferable 
with  its  rich  soups  and  sauces,  its  hochepot 
gantois  —  a  sort  of  celestial  hotchpot  —  and 
the  still  richer  Burgundies.  But  you  get  none 
of  these  things  at  the  hotels.  The  average  vis 
itors  prefer  tepid  flavours  and  are  correspond 
ingly  catered  to;  in  the  local  restaurants  you 
secure  what  you  want,  though  the  note  of  ele 
gance  is  missing.  The  death  of  the  venerable 
Van  den  Berghe,  once  a  cook  of  unrivalled  skill, 
265 


BELGIAN  ETCHINGS 

is  a  great  loss.  The  only  two  hotels  that  count 
are  active  rivals.  Does  the  one  set  up  an  auto 
mobile,  the  other  announces  a  lift,  although 
there  are  but  two  low  stories  to  the  building; 
then  the  first  puts  a  big  flower  vase  electrically 
illuminated  in  its  courtyard;  you  assist  nightly 
at  the  incantation  scene  from  Faust,  without 
music;  that  operatic  coup  starts  the  second 
hotel  into  the  extravagance  of  a  private  coach 
with  a  monogram,  not  to  speak  of  a  haughty 
coachman  got  up  in  the  English  mode.  And 
so  it  goes.  If  only  there  were  less  bell-ringing 
and  more  native  cookery  Bruges  would  be  still 
more  desirable  than  it  is  —  and  we  find  it  the 
most  desirable  spot  in  Europe  for  a  summer  or 
fall  vacation.  And  with  the  exceptions  of 
Prague,  Toledo,  Venice,  it  has  no  rival  in  pic- 
turesqueness.  Every  turn  of  an  alley  or  water 
way  is  a  pure  ravishment  for  the  eye.  We  pur 
posely  refrain  from  again  dilating  upon  the  art 
of  Memling,  Van  Eyck,  and  Gherard  David, 
who  may  be  studied  here  in  all  their  efflores 
cence.  If  since  Johann  Sebastian  Bach  nothing 
new  has  been  created  in  music,  then  no  original 
painting  has  appeared  since  the  magnificent 
work  of  Jan  Van  Eyck.  His  is  indeed  a  lost  art. 
Another  attraction  in  Bruges  is  its  position  as 
a  summer  city.  In  twenty  minutes  by  express 
you  may  reach  Ostend,  Blankenberghe,  Heyst 
(Heist),  or  Knocke,  where  the  beaches,  the  vast 
stone  piers,  the  huge  hotels,  and  the  high  prices 
—  that  is  at  Ostend  —  fill  the  visitor  with  awe 
266 


BELGIAN  ETCHINGS 

and  admiration.  Blankenberghe  is  rather  too 
noisy,  Knocke  is  cheap,  Heyst  is  pretty  and  not 
too  dear.  At  Ostend  we  paid  sixty  cents  for 
two  cups  of  poor  coffee.  At  Duinberg,  near 
Heyst,  they  play  tennis  behind  dunes  as  big  as 
cathedrals,  play  with  a  stretched  tape  instead 
of  a  net.  They  think  it  is  very  English.  The 
sea  is  as  wet  and  tumbling  as  at  our  beaches, 
and  people  enjoy  themselves  even  as  we  do. 
There  is  much  of  a  muchness  even  at  these 
pretty  Belgian  bathing  resorts.  If  you  don't 
wish  to  go  to  Heyst  or  Knocke  by  the  regular 
trains,  steam  tram-cars  that  start  from  the  Bruges 
station  and  snort  ferociously  will  carry  you 
through  a  lovely  region  of  meadows  intersected 
by  canals;  by  alleys  of  processional  poplars  you 
dream  of  Hobbema  and  his  Mittelharnais  alley 
or  of  Ruysdael  as  you  pass  a  sudden  silvery 
waterfall.  Even  the  sunlight  seems  of  silver  as 
it  glances  through  the  white  clouds,  and  the 
sight  of  a  windmill  revolving  at  a  lenten  pace 
reminds  one  that  over  here  the  rhythm  of  life 
if  not  exciting  is  at  least  conducive  to  content, 
which  is  the  true  equivalent  of  happiness. 

You  can't  blame  the  Brugeois,  who  is  a 
veritable  burgher,  for  not  becoming  excited  over 
Georges  Rodenbach's  Bruges  la  morte.  The 
dead  poet  delicately  scarified  the  gossiping  in 
habitants,  mocked  at  their  superstitions  and 
called  attention  to  their  inquisitiveness,  as 
evidenced  by  their  telltale  mirrors  attached  to 
so  many  windows.  But  they  were  right  accord- 


BELGIAN  ETCHINGS 

ing  to  their  lights.  Bruges  is  a  rattling,  wide 
awake,  sparkling  little  city,  not  a  dead  one. 
If  you  want  the  poetic,  albeit  morbid,  Bruges 
come  over  here  in  November  when  the  mist 
hangs  white  scarfs  of  nebulosity  on  the  Min- 
newater,  where  the  black  swans  move  like 
phantoms  over  the  phlegmatic  surface.  Then 
Bruges  la  morte  is  to  be  seen,  and  after  you  have 
caught  a  nice  cold  you  go  to  your  inn  through 
the  dense  fog  to  the  accompaniment  of  the  me 
tallic  clangour  of  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  and  the 
next  day  you  escape  to  Brussels.  We  prefer 
Bruges,  the  cheerful. 


268 


V 

MADRID 

SPAIN  is  not  always  sunny.  Spain  is  not 
lyrically  charming,  as  is  Italy.  Italy  is  a  beau 
tiful,  coquettish  woman;  Spain  is  epical  and 
sternly  masculine.  The  barbers  in  Seville  are 
not  Figaros,  and  nowadays  they  dip  their  razors 
in  antiseptic  fluid.  There  are  no  bandits;  the 
only  bandits  are  the  beggars.  Spain  is  rapidly 
becoming  modernised.  Hotels  of  excellent  qual 
ity  may  be  found,  railroad  trains  are  seldom 
more  than  two  hours  behindhand,  and  the  peo 
ple  do  not  dress  like  toreadors  or  gipsies;  that 
is,  on  the  streets.  No  romance  left?  Plenty 
of  it;  but  not  of  the  operatic  sort.  The  Spain 
of  the  Cid,  of  Theophile  Gautier  and  of  Prosper 
M6rimee  has  vanished;  it  is  now  the  Spain  of 
Emilia  Pardo  Bazan,  Blasco  Ibanez,  of  Zuloaga; 
and,  let  it  be  added,  it  is  as  fascinating  a  Spain 
as  in  the  days  of  Cervantes. 

Nevertheless  Spain  is  only  partially  civilised; 
she  is  still  semibarbaric.  For  which  fact  trav 
ellers  with  a  spoonful  of  imagination  ought  to 
be  grateful.  Spain  is  a  laggard  in  the  proces 
sion  of  the  nations;  yet  she  is  still  in  the  proces- 
269 


MADRID 

sion.  And  she  is  not  decadent.  The  Moors 
left  their  impress  on  Spanish  culture,  but  per 
haps  their  importance  has  been  exaggerated. 
Moorish  architecture  with  its  lace-like  fioritura 
in  ornamentation  is  marvellous  to  behold.  The 
Alhambra  is  an  Arabian  Nights  dream,  though 
its  fantastic  beauty  is  outweighed  by  Spanish 
Gothic;  the  cathedral  at  Seville  is  infinitely 
more  inspiring.  It  has  been  the  good  luck  or 
the  misfortune  of  Spain  that  her  arts  came  to 
her  from  the  outside:  Flemings,  Italians,  French, 
and  Moors.  Even  El  Greco,  who  is  more  Span 
ish  than  Velasquez,  was  not  a  Spaniard.  Ribera, 
despite  his  powerful  personality,  derived  from 
Caravaggio;  while  Velasquez,  half  Portuguese, 
is  the  glory  of  Spain,  the  glory  of  the  world. 

The  best  Spanish  dancing  is  not  to  be  found 
in  Spain  to-day.  You  must  go  to  Paris  for 
Otero  and  Carmencita.  Nor  is  the  most  char 
acteristic  cookery  in  Spain;  at  least,  not  in 
Madrid.  The  greatest  Spanish  opera  was  com 
posed  by  the  Frenchman  Bizet.  Merimee  has 
given  the  world  veracious  Spanish  types.  What 
does  it  matter  if  they  are  operatic?  Carmen 
could  not  have  been  a  gipsy,  and  Sefiora  Bazan 
has  proved  that  the  cigarette  girls  of  Seville  are 
moral  and  hard-working;  but  the  Carmen  legend 
persists,  it  will  always  persist.  Madrid  is  not 
the  city  to  spear  beloved  and  familiar  Spanish 
character.  Nor  is  Seville,  for  that  matter;  Se 
ville  out  of  season.  During  Easter  week,  when 
the  city  is  masquerading,  your  taste  for  the 
270 


MADRID 

footlights  is  gratified.  Seville  is  then  more 
Spanish  than  Spain.  It  is  Toledo,  only  a  few 
hours  from  Madrid,  or,  indeed,  any  of  the  small 
towns  off  the  main  travelled  highways,  that 
gives  you  a  taste  of  real  Spain.  Granada  is 
now  a  commonplace  commercial  community. 
Its  charm  has  vanished.  It  needs  summer 
moonlight  to  recreate  the  magic  of  the  AJhambra. 

To  tear  one's  self  away  from  beloved  Paris 
wh,en  on  the  threshold  of  the  season 'is  a  painful 
experience,  for  in  the  Louvre  is  the  art  of  all 
lands  —  even  if  the  Velasquezes  have  been 
reduced  to  that  solitary  an.d  superb  portrait  of 
the  Infanta  Margarita.  But  a  sure  way  to 
accelerate  your  departure  is  to  go  to  the  Opera 
and  hear  a  performance  of  Die  Walkiire.  This 
we  did,  and  longed  for  Spain  —  or  New  York. 
Dear  old  Delm.as  as  a  goatlike  Wotan,  Mother 
Grandjean  as  Briinnhilde  (it  is  a  toss-up  who  is 
shriller  of  lung,  Breval  or  Grandjean)  and  Jour- 
net  as  Hunding !  The  busy  little  director,  Mes- 
sager,  conducted  as  if  he  had  to  catch  a  train 
for  the  suburbs.  (He  had.)  Poor  Wagner ! 
One  missed  the  millionaire  Chauchard,  who 
usually  occupied  that  stage-box  planted  at  the 
side  of  Hunding's  hut.  And  one  also  missed 
Wagnerian  atmosphere.  Like  the  foolish  father 
in  Charpentier's  Louise,  you  shake  your  fist  at 
the  opera-house,  exclaiming  "Oh,  Paris!" 

It  was  without  regret,  then,  that  we  took  our 
allotted  seats  in  the  southern  express,  bound  for 
Madrid  via  Hendaye^Irun.  It  is  the  swiftest 
271 


MADRID 

way  to  reach  Spain;  also  the  most  expensive. 
You  leave  the  Orleans  station  at  12:17  o'clock 
and  ought  to  be  in  the  Spanish  capital  twenty- 
six  hours  later.  A  noticeable  slowing  down 
after  Irun  and  a  slackness  in  the  service  remind 
you  that  you  are  on  Spanish  soil.  But  you  miss 
a  lot  on  this  night  trip.  Bordeaux  is  viewed  by 
daylight,  Bayonne  is  not.  Getting  to  Madrid 
in  such  short  order  has  its  renunciations.  On 
the  other  hand,  it  is  exhilarating  to  go  to  sleep 
at  Irun  —  where  you  change  cars,  and  see  that 
your  trunks  accompany  you  —  and  awaken  in 
staring  sunshine  and  read  the  name  of  some 
station  in  the  wildest  region  of  rock  and  desert 
and  mountain.  Torquemada !  You  shiver  and 
dream  of  the  Inquisition,  though  Lea  has  par 
tially  dissipated  its  legend.  But  there  it  is  — 
Torquemada.  There  are  goats,  too,  and  men  a 
world  too  large  for  the  donkeys  they  so  lazily 
bestride.  The  scenery  is  volcanic;  no  trees, 
no  water,  no  green.  The  sun  blazes  over  these 
burnt-up  stretches  of  stone  and  sand.  How 
can  life  be  supported  in  such  a  sterile  land? 
Presently  you  are  reminded  of  Mexico.  Adobe 
huts,  the  same  sort  of  humans,  earrings,  wide 
trousers,  conical  hats,  and  the  inevitable  don 
key  or  mule.  The  few  women  are  frowsy  rather 
than  picturesque.  The  stations  are  miserable 
affairs.  It  may  be  admitted  that  the  first  peep 
at  Spain  is  not  reassuring.  What  a  different 
impression  when  one  enters  by  way  of  Gib- 
raltar-Algeciras.  Southern  Spain  is  entrancing. 
272 


MADRID 

The  climate  is  mild  and  soothing  to  travel-worn 
nerves. 

Madrid,  a  middle-class  provincial  city,  is  one 
that  proved  an  agreeable  disappointment.  You 
hear  so  much  of  its  dulness,  its  dirtiness,  its 
high  prices,  its  indifference  toward  strangers, 
and  its  lack  of  charm  that  when  you  have  gone 
about  for  a  few  hours  you  exclaim  against  such 
slanders.  High  priced  are  the  hotels  on  the 
Puerta  del  Sol  and  noisy.  But  .no  one  who 
knows  the  ropes  goes  to  them.  As  board  and 
lodging  are,  as  a  rule,  engaged  at  once,  you  may 
be  asked  one  hundred  pesetas  or  francs  a  day 
at  a  so-called  fashionable  house.  Go,  however, 
to  a  retired  and  admirable  caravansary  and  a 
chamber  with  board  for  two  will  cost  only  fifty 
francs.  Of  course,  almost  every  hotel  has  its 
drawbacks  in  Madrid.  We  looked  out  from  the 
balcony  (a  national  institution)  on  the  noisy 
Calle  del  Principe  and  can  vouch  for  the  state 
ment  that  many  Spaniards  never  go  to  bed  in  the 
night-time.  Such  gabbling.  Such  smoking  — 
the  tobacco  in  Spain  is  strong,  cheap,  and  of 
good  flavour  —  such  quarrelling  and  laughter. 
And  from  neighbouring  balconies  voices  would 
join  in  the  discussion.  A  mandolin  was  plucked 
and  a  voice  hummed  passionately  and  out  of 
tune.  The  material  for  romance  was  close  at 
hand,  but  we  were  too  sleepy  to  appreciate  it. 
The  Ferrer  affair  was  agitating  all  Spain  that 
week  —  he  was  shot  on  October  13  —  and  the 
Puerta  del  Sol  was  jammed  by  sullen  crowds. 

273 


MADRID 

We  saw  no  overt  acts  of  violence,  but  one  could 
note  that  the  temper  of  the  populace  was  ugly. 
Perhaps  it  was  because  so  much  conversational 
steam  was  let  off  during  the  night  that  the 
Barcelona  violence  was  not  repeated  at  Madrid. 
We  wisely  held  our  peace  on  the  subject;  while 
the  Spaniard  is  the  politest  person  in  the  world, 
his  politics  must  be  respected.  Quite  as  many 
approved  of  Ferrer's  execution  as  execrated  it; 
that  is,  in  Madrid. 

We  said  that  the  Spaniard  is  polite.  It  is 
true.  He  is  sincere,  in  a  grave,  virile  manner. 
His  treatment  of  the  Americans  proves  it.  The 
bitterness  still  rankles,  yet  he  talks  frankly  and 
tells  you  that  Spain  is  well  rid  of  Cuba  and  the 
Philippines.  It  is  impossible  to  doubt  him. 
Madrid  is  second-rate,  no  doubt,  but  it  is  a 
homelike  town,  where  you  are  not  stared  to 
death,  where  no  one  is  in  a  hurry,  for  the 
motto  is  still  manana;  where  the  men  are  better 
looking  than  the  women;  one  looks  in  vain  for 
the  slender  Goya  majas,  with  the  saddleback, 
the  dusky  green  eyes,  the  comb,  mantilla,  and 
fan;  instead  are  mediocre  imitations  of  Paris; 
numerous  fat  ladies,  as  many  brown  haired  as 
black,  rice  powder  on  sallow  skins,  feminine 
moustaches,  lace  scarfs,  fans,  of  course,  no  eyes 
of  midnight  hue,  and  no  beauties.  The  cafes  are 
comfortable,  the  beer  is  fair  —  a  Spanish  Pilsner 
—  slightly  sweet,  brewed  by  the  ubiquitous 
German.  The  beggars  are  a  terrible  nuisance, 
they  are  everywhere.  And  such  cripples !  Vic- 
274 


MADRID 

tor  Hugo  could  have  found  new  patterns  for  his 
Cour  des  Miracles  in  Madrid.  Repulsive  half- 
men  jerk  your  coat  tail,  asking  alms  in  the  name 
of  Christ.  Goya-like  hags  and  children  afflicted 
with  sores  that  revolt  your  senses  supplicate. 
You  sit  at  a  cafe  table.  At  once  a  blind  family 
appears  and  a  concert  begins.  Each  member 
plays  an  instrument  (the  humble  ocarina  is  in 
vogue  here) ;  or  an  orchestra  of  blind  men  makes 
hideous  the  afternoon.  Not  once  do  you  hear 
a  strain  of  Spanish  music  from  these  perambulat 
ing  noise  makers.  But  you  give  them  something. 
Every  one  does.  The  temper  of  the  Spanish  is 
lenient  toward  its  beggars. 

In  vain  we  sought  the  so-called  Flamenca 
dancers;  the  dreariest  dancing  is  in  Madrid. 
Later,  in  Seville,  we  saw  the  genuine  dances 
and  were  very  much  surprised.  There  is  little 
excitement,  beauty,  character,  in  this  caper 
ing  of  a  half  dozen  sallow  alleged  gipsies  who, 
when  smiling,  displayed  a  half  inch  of  pink 
gums.  Zuloaga  has  trapped  the  type  to  per 
fection,  and  in  Spain,  with  its  cruel,  diffused 
light,  you  understand  the  patchwork  of  his 
colour,  his  use  of  primary  tints.  You  meet  his 
old  women  beggars  and  gipsies  all  over  Spain. 

The  Madrilefiian  eschews  the  national  danc 
ing;  he  seems  ashamed  of  it.  The  bull-fighting 
is  going  the  same  way,  though  it  may  not  die 
out  for  a  century.  Our  first  bull-fight  was  a 
fizzle.  We  prefer  an  abattoir.  To  be  frank, 
the  sport  is  sillier  than  football,  though  not  as 

275 


MADRID 

cruel.  The  meanest  feature  is  not  the  slaughter 
of  mild  old  cattle  but  the  occasional  disembow- 
elment  of  a  horse.  The  toreadors,  matadors, 
picadors  are  operatic  creatures,  more  spoiled 
than  Italian  tenors  and  thrice  as  useless;  other 
wise  the  massed  impression  is  gay  and  worth  the 
trouble  of  gaining.  As  it  is  with  the  dancing  so 
with  the  eating.  Real  Spanish  cookery  is  only 
to  be  had  in  some  humble  restaurant.  The 
noble  garlic  (ajo),  so  happy  an  ingredient  in 
salad,  is  absent  at  hotel  tables.  Peppery  dishes 
are  missing;  too  much  deference  is  paid  to  for 
eign  palates.  It  is  the  same  with  sauerkraut  in 
Germany,  with  macaroni  in  Italy,  with  frogs' 
legs  in  France.  So  much  fun  has  been  poked 
at  national  dishes  that  Seiior  Gomez  told  us  the 
Spanish  have  become  sensitive  on  the  subject 
of  garlic.  But  we  had  tortilla  con  jamon 
(omelet  with  ham),  renones  a  la  brochette 
(kidneys),  pescado  frito  and  puchero  (pot  au 
feu),  with  its  garbanzos  (white  beans).  Ga- 
spacho  we  did  not  taste,  nor  the  famous  olla 
podrida. 

Here  is  an  average  menu  for  luncheon:  En- 
tremeses:  (olives,  radishes,  butter) ;  ostras  (small 
oysters,  metallic  in  flavour) ;  tortilla  a  la  Fran- 
cesca  (omelet);  entrecot  a  la  bordelesa;  denton 
salsa  verde  (a  good  fish);  fiambres  a  1'aspic; 
pasteles  variados  (pastry);  quesos  y  frutas 
(fruit),  washed  down  with  either  a  fiery  Valde- 
pefias,  a  fiery  Spanish  Burgundy,  or  a  smooth 
Rio  Romay.  This  at  the  regular  hotel  table 
276 


MADRID 

d'hote  at  the  Inglese.  Nevertheless  there  is  a 
little  Spanish  restaurant  on  the  Rue  du  Helder, 
Paris,  where  the  food  is  more  national. 

The  street  cries,  never  ending,  are  interesting. 
We  heard  one  old  woman  with  a  voice  like 
Scalchi's,  when  that  singer  had  a  quartet  in  her 
larynx.  We  confess,  however,  that  the  most 
Spanish  looking  woman  we  ever  saw  was  not  in 
Spain,  but  on  the  boards  of  the  Metropolitan 
Opera  House.  Her  name  is  Lilli  Lehmann,  and 
she  sang  the  part  of  Donna  Anna  in  Don  Gio 
vanni.  Tall,  grave,  raven  of  hair,  with  eyes 
like  stars,  she  was  the  Spanish  aristocrat.  She 
revealed  race  and  character.  Certainly  none 
of  the  prognathic  jawed  Hapsburgs  look  so 
Spanish  or  so  noble;  which  illustrates  what 
Henry  James  once  wrote  in  his  tale  The  Real 
Thing.  In  this  case  truth  was  inferior  to  fiction. 

The  secular  charm  of  Madrid  is  in  its  wide 
avenues,  such  as  the  Calle  de  Alcala,  its  park, 
the  walk  through  the  Prado,  its  royal  palace,  a 
few  churches,  a  few  public  buildings.  The 
Prado  is  simply  a  boon  on  a  hot  day  —  and  it's 
a  fierce  sun  that  beats  on  the  city,  treacherous 
as  is  its  night  air.  Across  the  way  a  new  hotel 
has  been  erected  by  the  Ritz- Carl  ton  Company. 
The  prices  are  sufficiently  exalted  to  make  the 
hotel  men  on  the  Puerta  del  Sol  open  their 
ingenuous  eyes  in  astonishment. 

In  conclusion,  we  warn  the  timid  tourist  that 
he  is  quite  as  apt  to  lose  his  baggage  in  Italy  as 
in  Spain;  that  travel  is  by  no  means  a  hardship, 
277 


MADRID 

though  there  ought  to  be  more  corridor  cars; 
that  the  railway  restaurants  are  better  than 
any  of  the  same  class  in  America;  that  the 
Spanish  are  kind-hearted,  considerate,  unfail 
ingly  courteous,  ever  optimistic,  and  anxious 
that  the  golden  shower  of  foreign  money  be 
diverted  from  France  and  Italy  to  their  own 
tremendously  romantic  land. 


278 


VI 
DEAR  OLD  DUBLIN 


AFTER  all,  blood  is  thicker  than  water;  in 
Ireland  it  is  even  thicker  than  whisky.  I  for 
got  the  joys  of  Vienna,  the  trim  existence  of 
them  that  reside  in  Berlin  on  the  River  Spree, 
when,  after  a  ride  through  the  Happy  Valley, 
Wales,  I  found  myself  on  the  Irish  Sea,  then  on 
Irish  soil  at  Kingstown.  The  reason  I  speak  of 
blood  is  because  I'm  half  Irish  by  descent  and 
was  brought  up  in  the  good  old-fashioned  beliefs : 
Ireland,  the  Isle  of  Saints;  Ireland,  oppressed  by 
the  Sassenach;  Ireland,  the  land  of  the  bravest 
men  and  best  women;  Ireland,  the  most  beau 
tiful  country  on  God's  footstool. 

I  had  read  and  believed  in  the  Ireland  of 
Samuel  Lover  and  Charles  Lever,  of  Carlton 
and  Dion  Boucicault's  Colleen  Bawn,  of  Tom 
Moore,  and  Father  Burke.  The  New  Ireland, 
the  Celtic  Awakening,  the  new-fangled  fairies 
of  Yeats,  the  mystic  music  of  A.  E.  (George 
Russell),  the  exquisite  carolling  of  a  younger 
choir,  the  bitter-sweet  pathos  and  humour  and 
dramatic  power  of  John  Synge  —  all  these  were 
279 


DEAR  OLD  DUBLIN 

not  in  existence  when  I  was  a  lad;  nor  were 
Lady  Gregory's  gods  and  fighting  men  and  the 
epical  Cuchalain  and  Deirdre.  Instead,  I  was 
fed  upon  splendid  legends  of  Fenianism.  My 
grandfather,  James  Gibbons,  had  been  vice- 
president  of  the  American  organisation. 

You  may  imagine  what  a  different  Ireland 
was  unfolded  when  I  read  T.  W.  Rolleston's 
Anthology  of  Celtic  Poetry.  The  "natural 
magic"  of  Matthew  Arnold  is  not  missing  in 
the  new  men  and  women;  the  ancient  and 
fascinating  poetic  potion  of  smiles,  tears,  and 
tenderness  is  as  cunningly  concocted  as  ever, 
for  as  long  as  there  is  a  Celt  on  the  rind  of  our 
planet  there  you  will  find  sentiment  and  ro 
mance.  All  the  busy  professors  of  criticism 
cannot  kill  romance  with  their  little  metallic 
essays.  Romance  is  out  of  fashion?  Go  to 
Ireland  and  see  if  it  is. 

"An'  I  wisht  I  was  in  Ireland  the  livelong 
day  .  .  .  Och!  Corrymeela  an'  the  blue  sky 
over  it."  Well,  I  got  there  last  June,  and, 
while  I  didn't  find  Moira  O'Neill's  Corrymeela, 
I  discovered  Dublin;  also  discovered  that  the 
Irish  of  Ireland  don't  come  over  from  Liverpool 
on  cattle  boats,  as  Bernard  Shaw  ingenuously 
suggested;  nevertheless,  the  race  is  much  more 
like  the  men  and  women  of  Synge,  Yeats,  Lady 
Gregory,  Martyn,  George  Moore,  Birmingham, 
Dr.  Hyde,  and  Shaw  than  the  stage  Irishman 
of  a  past  generation.  (I  even  discovered  that 
the  Celtic  Casanova  and  the  Irish  Ibsen  were 
280 


DEAR  OLD   DUBLIN 

familiarly  called  Jarge  Moore  and  Barney 
Shaw.)  The  modern  Irishman  is  rather  melan 
choly,  a  pessimist  born,  and  his  womenkind 
are  the  reverse:  robust,  hopeful,  hard-working. 

I've  reached  Kingstown.  The  trip  across 
was  ideal.  The  British  fleet  is  in  the  harbour. 
Everywhere  bunting,  gaiety,  and  patriotic 
demonstrations.  The  Irishman  at  home  is 
very  English.  In  the  general  excitement  I  for 
got  to  sphygmograph  my  feelings,  and  presently, 
after  a  brief,  bumpy  railway  ride,  found  myself 
in  a  hotel  on  Sackville  Street.  The  view  either 
way  was  impressive.  But  if  mighty  London  ap 
pears  down  at  the  heel  after  a  sojourn  in  Berlin, 
then  in  a  figurative  sense  Dublin  is  simply  bare 
footed. 

It  is  very  dirty.  There  are  too  many  beggars; 
beggary  in  Ireland  is  raised  to  the  dignity  of  a 
sport.  Buxom  women  with  nursing  children 
implore  you  for  a  penny,  and  if  you  refuse,  smile 
at  you  so  forgivingly  that  you  double  in  your 
tracks  to  make  speedy  reparation.  The  Irish 
are  good-humoured,  and  it  must  be  their  trans 
plantation  that  makes  them  less  so  in  America. 
That  they  are  as  humorous  as  witty  I  am  not 
so  sure.  John  Quinn  contends  that  they  are 
not,  but  he  underwent  the  rigours  of  Irish  Players' 
ructions  in  New  York  and  Philadelphia,  and  the 
enormous  imbecility  of  that  affair  was  enough 
to  make  any  one  a  sceptic  on  the  subject. 

I  couldn't  help  thinking  that  the  public  build 
ings  would  be  less  mouldy  after  a  house  cleaning. 
281 


DEAR  OLD  DUBLIN 

Ireland,  like  all  Europe,  is  more  in  need  of  bath 
tubs  than  armaments.  Cleanliness  there  would 
be  greater  than  godliness.  A  first-class  hotel 
there  is  not  in  the  place,  though  the  national 
cookery  is  better  than  in  London.  The  best 
roast  beef  in  the  British  Isles  is  to  be  found  in 
Dublin,  but  that  fact  is  a  thrice-told  tale,  like 
the  excellence  of  the  porter.  There  are  few 
restaurants;  one  dines  at  his  hotel,  though 
there  is  an  excellent  French  cafe  and  one  spot 
at  least  where  Pilsner  is  kept  by  a  man  with  a 
Celtic  name  all  wool  and  a  yard  wide. 

As  for  home  rule,  Ulster's  wooden  oaths  and 
wooden  rifles,  the  revival  of  the  spirit  of  Boyne 
Water,  "Croppies  lie  down,"  and  Ulsteria,  I 
found  few  traces.  Throughout  the  south  there 
is  but  little  enthusiasm  for  home  rule,  though 
no  actual  hostility.  "What  is  home  rule?"  one 
Dublinite  asked  of  me.  "How  can  any  one  say 
what  it  will  be  like?"  he  continued.  He  was  a 
good  Catholic,  but  he  had  his  misgivings  about 
increasing  the  power  of  the  Church  in  the  land, 
and  that  is  what  is  feared.  George  Moore  is 
not  the  only  Irish  writer  who  sees  through  the 
hole  in  the  millstone.  The  old  faith  is  strong  in 
the  Ould  Dart,  but  there  is  a  growing  scepti 
cism  as  to  the  value  of  a  political  clergy;  further 
more,  there  are  too  many  able-bodied  lads  and 
lassies  taking  orders  and  filling  convents  when 
they  ought  to  be  better  employed  in  fathering 
and  mothering  families.  There  are  several  ways 
of  race  suicide.  Ireland  is  practically  short  of 
282 


DEAR  OLD  DUBLIN 

people,  for,  if  the  emigration  has  fallen  off,  so 
has  the  birth-rate,  and  a  country  peopled  by 
saints  would  not  be  a  country  worth  living  in. 
Gerald  (Jeremiah  is  the  real  name)  O'Donovan's 
novel,  Father  Ralph,  is  conceded  to  contain 
wholesome  truths.  And  it  is  by  no  means  an 
indictment  of  religion,  only  of  the  creaking  ma 
chinery  of  a  certain  Irish  clericalism. 

You  see,  I've  reached  Dublin,  but  I  haven't 
left  the  hotel.  Roast  beef,  Guinness's  stouts, 
and  politics  kept  me  indoors,  and,  with  no 
Baedeker  to  help,  I  was  forced  to  be  my  own 
guide.  (Herr  Baedeker  hasn't  thus  far  conde 
scended  to  include  Ireland  in  his  invaluable  list 
of  travel  books,  and,  oddly  enough,  Dublin  con 
tains  little  literature  on  the  subject.) 

II 

Thus  spake  the  ancient  Stanihurst: 
"The  seat  of  the  citie  is  of  all  sides  pleasant, 
comfortable,  and  wholesome.  If  you  would 
traverse  hills,  they  are  not  far  off.  If  Cham 
paign  laid,  it  lieth  of  all  parts.  If  you  would  be 
delited  with  fresh  water,  the  famous  river  called 
the  Liffie,  named  of  Ptolome  Lybnium,  runneth 
fast  by.  If  you  will  take  the  view  of  the  sea,  it 
is  at  hand." 

This  chronicler  did  not  exaggerate.  The  air 
in  Dublin  is  charged  with  salt  odours.  You  sniff 
the  sea  fish.  My  hereditary  enthusiasms  re 
vived  when  I  found  myself  in  front  of  Trinity 

283 


DEAR  OLD  DUBLIN 

College  and  the  Bank  of  Ireland,  and  how  charm 
ing  the  lake  in  Stephen's  Green  and  the  winding 
walks  of  this  park!  A  more  impressive  building 
than  that  of  the  Law  Courts  is  seldom  seen,  and 
to  match  it  there  is  the  Custom  House.  As  for 
churches,  there  is  no  lack.  St.  Patrick's  Cathe 
dral  is  a  noble  pile,  so  is  Christ  Church  Cathe 
dral.  The  believer  in  the  old  faith  must  be 
saddened  at  the  service  in  St.  Patrick's  —  the 
Church  of  England  and  St.  Patrick!  — but  for 
all  that  it  is  a  noble  place  of  preaching  duly 
arresting. 

I  went  over  to  the  procathedral  to  an  early 
mass  and  was  touched  by  the  fervid  piety  of  the 
congregation  and  appalled  by  the  abundant 
evidences  of  poverty.  Outside  of  Spain  no  such 
poverty  is  to  be  found,  and  in  many  parts  of  the 
island  it  is  worse,  and  with  intemperance  as  an 
accompaniment.  Why?  Is  it  altogether  the 
fault  of  the  Sassenach,  the  hated  but  much- 
courted  Saxon?  Admiring  the  time-battered 

—  scarred  by  the  revengeful  hands  of  patriots 

—  statue  of  King  William  by  Grinling  Gibbons 
on  the  college  green,  I  passed  within  the  his 
torical  precincts  of  Trinity,  passed  the  statues 
of  Burke  and  Goldsmith,  and,  mindful  oi  Bishop 
Berkeley,  Dean  Swift,  Robert  Emmet,  Thomas 
Moore,  the  learned  Ussher,  Edmund  Buike,  not 
forgetting  my  friend,  the  late  Professor  Edward 
Dowden,  I  reached  the  trees  in  the  park  opposite 
the  Kildare  Club,  at  the  comer  of  Nassau  Street, 
and  smoked  the  pipe  of  peace  under  a  so:t  blue 

284 


DEAR  OLD   DUBLIN 

sky,  through  which  wind-propelled  white  cloud- 
hummocks  lazily  passed. 

This,  I  said  to  myself,  is  the  real  Ireland,  not 
the  too  busy,  commercial  Belfast  or  the  prosper 
ous  " far-down"  of  Donegal.  I  felt  at  home,  as 
I  never  felt  at  home  in  Budapest.  The  two  and 
three  story  houses  across  the  park  recalled  my 
native  city  of  Philadelphia;  even  the  accent  of 
the  Dublin  people  was  like  music  in  my  ears  — 
streaked,  as  it  was,  with  an  insinuating  brogue, 
but  infinitely  purer  English  than  the  grotesque 
cockney  accent  of  London.  To  be  sure,  I  had 
dined  on  wonderful  mutton,  washed  it  down 
with  appropriate  fluids,  and  was  smoking  good 
tobacco;  therefore  cheerfully  disposed.  In  my 
hand  I  held  a  blackthorn.  Afar  came  the  sound 
of  the  tram-car  on  Nassau  Street.  I  thought  of 
the  times  when  James  van  Gogh  Gregg,  better 
known  as  El  Greggo,  raised  his  mellifluous  voice 
in  the  stadium,  or  when  Dean  Swift  coined  epi 
grams  striking  dismay  in  the  heart  of  Delany 
of  Delville;  of  Henry  Grattan  and  Wolfe  Tone; 
of  Daniel  O'Connell,  and  the  night  that  Larry 
was  stretched—  "Oh,  the  hemp  will  be  soon 
around  my  throttle  and  choke  my  poor  windpipe 
to  death!"  —of  Handel  and  his  Messiah,  sung 
in  the  old  Music  Hall  centuries  ago;  of  Samuel 
Lover  and  his  famous  grandson,  Victor  Herbert ; 
of  Harry  Lorrequer;  of  unhappy  Oscar  O'Flah- 
erty  Wilde  —  a  more  unreal  figure  to-day  than 
either  Harry  Lorrequer  or  Charles  O'Malley  — 
and  of  cabbages  and  kings. 

285 


DEAR  OLD  DUBLIN 

Then  the  omnipresent  guide  begged  me  to 
visit  the  interior  of  the  college,  but  for  that  day, 
at  least,  I  refused.  I  dislike  relics,  muddy  por 
traits;  above  all,  I  dislike  inhuman  documents. 
Day  dreams  and  soothing  tobacco  were  more  in 
the  Celtic  key  than  futile  rummaging  in  the 
coprolitic  mud  of  antiquity.  However,  the 
guide  was  too  decent  a  chap  to  insist  —  only 
Irish-Americans,  so-called,  are  insistent  —  and 
he  sat  him  down  hard  by  and  smoked  his  pipe. 
Then  he  fell  to  conversing. 

"Why  does  that  President  of  yours  call  him 
self  an  Irishman?"  he  asked.  (My  speech  be 
trayed  my  nationality.)  I  was  startled.  Had 
Dr.  Wilson  been  discovered?  I  put  this  to  the 
guide.  He  in  his  turn  was  puzzled. 

"Wilson,"  he  retorted,  "I  don't  know  any 
President  named  Wilson  in  the  States.  I  mean 
a  man  who  calls  himself  Bryan,  the  real  Presi 
dent,  I  take  it,  and  not  an  Irishman,  by  the 
same  token,  for  no  Irishman  would  drop  the 
'0'  from  his  name;  no  Irishman  would  drink 
grape  juice;  above  all,  no  true  Irishman  would 
change  his  faith."  And  with  that  he  left  me 
to  my  thoughts. 

An  Irishman,  I  reflected,  is  either  fiddling  in 
the  zenith  with  the  archangels  or  he  is  wrang 
ling  in  the  nethermost  hell  with  Satan  and  his 
spit  and  spawn.  The  Irish  and  the  Poles  are 
chips  off  the  same  temperamental  block. 

Naturally,  I  visited  the  Castle  and  a  dozen 
buildings  of  historic  interest,  veritable  treasure- 
286 


DEAR   OLD   DUBLIN 

troves  for  antiquarians;  but  I  was  held  in  the 
spell  of  the  streets  and  the  look  in  the  faces  of 
passers-by,  or  by  the  fair  lawns  of  Phcenix  Park. 
I  know  I  should  have  been  overcome  by  the 
prospect  of  Sackville  Street,  the  Nelson  Pillar, 
and  the  stately  Post-Office,  but  I  preferred 
the  small  and  altogether  attractive  Zoological 
Garden,  where  the  peacocks,  cranes,  and  ducks 
troop  after  you  crying  for  crackers  and  the 
lions  roar  like  Irish  sucking  doves.  It  is  not  a 
large  collection,  this,  but  within  its  limits  it  is 
complete;  the  lions  are  numerous  and  the 
primates  true  natives.  Far  more  real  to  me 
was  Chapelizod,  where  Isod  or  Isolde  of  Malory's 
romance  walked  and  talked  in  company  with 
Brangaene.  Nothing  but  a  memory,  not  even  a 
handful  of  stone  marks  the  spot.  In  Dublin 
City  there  was  at  one  time  Izod's  Tower  on  the 
walls,  but  for  a  sight  of  the  living  Isolde  you 
must  go  to  Gotham,  when  Olive  Fremstad  sings 
and  Arturo  Toscanini  conducts.  The  Metro 
politan  Opera  House  is  now  the  only  Chapelizod. 
You  will  like  Graf  ton  Street,  and  if  you  are 
a  mere  man,  Duke  near  Grafton  Street.  (This 
is  a  secret  like  the  pattern  in  the  carpet  of  Henry 
James;  but  I  don't  mind  telling  you  that  Pil 
sner  from  Pilsen  is  very  real  at  that  spot.) 
What  boots  it  to  struggle  in  chill  prose  with 
descriptions  of  Bray  Head,  of  Dalkey,  or  Killi- 
ney  Bay,  and  Sorrento?  Yes,  an  Irish  Sorrento, 
with  its  cup  of  blue  liquid  and  its  shore  an 
emerald  green  curve  of  trees.  You  remember 
287 


DEAR  OLD   DUBLIN 

Walter  Pater's  slighting  criticism  of  Alpine  lakes 
as  "pots  of  blue  paint "  ?  " The  pots ' '  are  here, 
marvellously  cerulean,  as  a  background  the 
Wicklow  Mountains.  No  wonder  you  think 
of  Sorrento,  the  Bay  of  Naples,  even  of  Vesuvius, 
for  here  towers  the  peak  of  Sugarloaf.  Beyond 
the  Dublin  and  Wicklow  Mountains  is  truly  a 
sainted  land,  holy  with  beauty,  Glendalough, 
the  Vale  of  Ovoca,  "  the  meeting  of  the  waters," 
Powerscourt,  and  gardens  that  haunt  the  mem 
ory.  You  forget  the  blood-drenched  history  of 
the  countryside,  forget  Donnybrook  Fair,  the 
Blarney  Stone,  and  the  jaunting-cars,  and  only 
enjoy  this  beauty;  and  soon  the  chords  of  pa 
triotism  sound  and  you  feel  proud  to  call  your 
self  Irish,  or  even  half  Irish.  The  very  soil  is 
sacred  with  its  bones  of  the  martyred  dead.  I 
became  so  overwrought  that  to  restore  the  bal 
ance  I  motored  back  to  Dublin  to  see  the  Hon 
ourable  Richard  Croker  of  Crokersville,  and  a 
grand  place  Himself  has,  a  show-place  for  every 
one  that  visits  Dublin. 

The  little  streets  and  dirty  alleys  are  not  to 
be  missed.  There,  as  in  Naples,  you  come  to 
grips  with  the  population.  Never  once  did  I 
hear  a  solitary  soul  whistle  The  Valley  Lay 
Smiling  Before  Me  (to  the  tune  of  Pretty  Girl 
Milking  the  Cow),  or  The  Harp  That  Once 
Thro'  Tara's  Halls,  or  The  Wearing  of  the  Green; 
instead,  ragtime  and  vulgar  London  music-hall 
ditties  were  sung  or  piped.  In  an  ugly,  crowded 
street  full  of  Sunday-morning  drunkards  and 
288 


DEAR   OLD   DUBLIN 

leading  to  St.  Patrick's  Cathedral  I  saw  a  poster 
advertising  breakfast  food.  A  militant  suffra 
gette  is  depicted  behind  the  bars  in  jail.  She  is 
emaciated  from  self-imposed  starvation,  but 
when  shown  the  food  by  the  keeper,  what  all  the 
king's  horses  and  all  the  king's  men  couldn't 
accomplish  with  this  petticoated  Humpty- 
Dumpty,  the  appetising  food  is  supposed  to  do. 
She  clamours  for  it,  and  the  moral  is  irresistibly 
conveyed:  even  the  most  stubborn  suffragette 
must  eat  our  patent  food !  Great  are  the  uses 
of  advertisement. 

My  second  visit  to  Dublin  was  not  as  pleasant 
as  the  first.  I  went  over  from  Holland  and 
landed  in  the  very  heat  and  disorder  of  the 
strike.  Now,  the  striking  Irishman  is  not  a 
pleasant  companion  in  New  York;  in  Dublin 
he  is  far  worse.  Not  for  me  to  discuss  the  eco 
nomical  cause  of  the  strike,  but  they  tell  a  pretty 
story  of  starvation  wages  and  exhausting  labour 
hours.  The  employers  have  their  side  of  the 
question.  I  never  wish  to  see  again  the  panic 
which  occurred  during  the  funeral  of  the  unlucky 
James  Nolan,  whose  skull  had  been  battered  in 
during  a  shindy  with  the  police.  It  was  ter 
rifying,  as  much  so  to  me  in  my  hotel  window 
facing  on  Sackville  Street,  near  the  Pillar,  as 
to  the  mob  that  was  "rushed"  by  the  constabu 
lary.  If  such  treatment  were  accorded  the  pub 
lic  at  one  of  our  gatherings  in  the  streets,  ven 
geance  would  be  swift.  I  quite  agree  with  those 
who  think  the  police  were  too  brutal  with  their 


DEAR  OLD   DUBLIN 

own  people;  not  that  the  rioting  Irishman  is  a 
pleasing  spectacle,  but  in  this  case  it  was  the 
women  and  children  who  were  the  sufferers. 
I  heard,  too,  that  Nolan  was  not  the  "I'm  blue 
mouldy  for  want  of  a  batin' "  type  of  man.  Mr. 
H.  J.  Howard  in  his  book  on  Dublin  quotes 
Giraldus  Cambrensis:  "Perchance  it  is  the  chas 
tisement  of  God,  whereby  these  lands  are  suf 
fered  to  struggle  continually  one  with  the  other, 
so  that  neither  is  England  ever  wholly  victo 
rious,  nor  Ireland  thoroughly  subdued."  I  sup 
pose  a  thousand  years  hence  there  will  still  be 
an  Irish  question. 

Ill 

During  his  last  pilgrimage  to  New  England 
Henry  James  tells  of  the  "emotion  of  recogni 
tion"  he  experienced  when  coming  face  to  face 
with  some  specimens  of  Monet  and  other  French 
impressionists  in  a  most  unexpected  place. 
Evidently,  for  him  Massachusetts  and  Monet  did 
not  effectively  modulate.  The  anecdote  threw 
much  light  on  the  artistic  bias  of  the  James 
temperament.  I  enjoyed  the  same  sort  of  a 
thrill  when  I  first  visited  the  Municipal  Gallery 
on  Harcourt  Street,  although  the  primary  rea 
son  of  my  presence  in  Dublin  was  the  prospect 
of  studying  the  collection  of  modern  art  gath 
ered  there  through  the  efforts  of  Sir  Hugh  Lane. 
I  was  not  disappointed.  It  is  the  finest  assem 
blage  of  certain  artists  outside  of  the  Luxem- 
290 


DEAR   OLD   DUBLIN 

bourg  Gallery,  Paris,  and  the  Mesdag  Gallery 
at  The  Hague.  Not  London,  not  New  York  can 
boast  a  better  Edouard  Manet  than  the  large 
canvas,  Eva  Gonzalez,  or  the  indescribably  col 
oured  Concert  in  the  Tuileries  Garden  (with  its 
dimly  descried  portrait  of  Charles  Baudelaire). 

There  are  several  Claude  Monets  of  various 
periods,  all  masterpieces.  Renoir's  Umbrellas 
is  striking,  while  the  names  of  J.  E.  Blanche, 
Pissarro,  Vuillard,  Degas,  Le  Sidaner,  Mancini 
(too  many  to  be  effective),  Corot,  Barye  (his 
oils),  Troyon,  Fantin-Latour,  Fromentin,  Cour- 
bet,  Harpignies,  Diaz,  Gerome,  Bonvin,  Rous 
seau,  and  a  splendid  study  by  Puvis  de  Cha- 
vannes,  Boldini,  Monticelli  are  not  missing,  nor 
is  Daumier  (a  noble  version  of  his  Don  Quixote 
and  Sancho  Panza);  also  Cottet,  James  Maris, 
Mauve,  Alfred  Stevens,  Legros,  Mesdag,  and 
others  may  be  seen.  In  the  British  section 
there  are  to  be  found  the  names  of  Brangwyn, 
Charles  Conder,  whose  fame  since  his  death  has 
justly  grown  by  leaps  and  bounds,  also  his 
posthumous  prices,  Gerald  Festus  Kelly  (a 
discreet-toned  portrait  of  a  lovable  Irish  gentle 
woman),  Simeon  Solomon,  Watts,  D.  Y.  Cam 
eron,  Wilson  Steer,  Charles  Ricketts,  John 
Constable,  Sickert,  Albert  Moore,  Whistler, 
Rothenstein,  George  Clausen,  and  C.  H.  Shan 
non  (The  brilliant  Lady  with  the  Green  Fan). 

The  Irish  section  is  well  to  the  fore,  as  it 
should  be.  Nathaniel  Hone,  with  his  simple, 
sincere  landscapes  and  marines;  John  Lavery, 

291 


DEAR  OLD  DUBLIN 

as  ever,  distinguished;  George  Russell,  John 
Butler  Yeats,  Mark  Fisher,  J.  J.  Shannon,  Os- 
borne,  Roche,  Duffy,  William  Orpen,  O'Meara, 
Roderick  O'Conor.  There  are  several  rooms 
devoted  to  original  drawings,  the  Millets  com 
ing  out  strong.  The  gallery  of  portraits  is  par 
ticularly  interesting.  Among  the  sculptures 
you  will  note  the  Age  of  Bronze,  the  Man  with 
the  Broken  Nose,  the  Honourable  George  Wynd- 
ham,  Bernard  Shaw,  Le  Pre'tre,  Frere  et  Soeur, 
by  Auguste  Rodin,  of  which  the  Age  of  Bronze 
is  the  most  important.  The  Shaw  portrait  bust 
is  too  "slicked  up"  for  either  Rodin  or  St. 
Bernard.  Himself  is  neither  so  handsome  nor  so 
vapid  looking.  Rodin  must  have  executed  this 
marble  in  one  of  his  perverse  moods,  possibly 
saying  to  himself:  "Go  to !  I'll  show  the  world 
that  this  Puck-like  Irishman  is  in  reality  a 
conventional  citizen."  Certainly  he  has  suc 
ceeded. 

Barye's  bronzes  there  are,  and  works  by  Furse, 
Lanteri,  John  Hughes,  PaulBartlett  (New  York), 
V.  Riviere,  Dalou,  and  the  gifted  Jacob  Epstein 
(New  York).  I  must  not  forget  the  names  of 
John  Sargent,  Jongkind,  Augustus  John,  a  mural 
decoration,  or  a  portrait  of  Daumier  by  Daubigny 
—  an  unusual  combination.  The  Beheading 
of  John  the  Baptist,  by  Puvis,  is  a  large  canvas. 
I  prefer  the  reduced  variation  of  the  same  theme 
by  Puvis  in  the  gallery  of  John  Quinn,  Esq., 
New  York,  as  being  richer  in  colour  quality  and 
more  intense  in  conception.  An  amazing  col- 
292 


DEAR  OLD   DUBLIN 

lection.  An  amazing  experience,  indeed,  to  find 
such  art  near  the  banks  of  the  drab  River  Liffey. 
And  what  a  tribute  to  the  taste  and  generosity 
of  the  donor,  Sir  Hugh  Lane.  I  hope  some  day 
to  see  the  pictures  housed  in  more  commodious 
quarters.  My  abiding  impressions  of  the  va 
rious  visits  I  made  to  Har court  Street  are  the 
two  Manets,  especially  the  Concert. 

A  second  artistic  surprise  was  to  find  in  the 
little  known  (that  is  in  America)  National  Gal 
lery  of  Ireland  (of  which  Sir  Hugh  Lane  is 
now  the  director)  an  array  of  canvases  of  prime 
quality,  such  as  examples  by  Mantegna,  Titian 
-  the  Disciples  at  Emmaus,  otherwise  known 
as  the  Tablecloth  (not  the  original,  but  a  varia 
tion?)  —  a  beautiful  Moroni,  a  fine  Rembrandt, 
Jondarus,  a  lively  little  virgin  and  child  by 
Adrian  Ysenbrandt,  a  Van  der  Heist,  a  Frans 
Hals,  a  version  of  his  Beach  Boy  at  Antwerp, 
Botticelli's  moving  portrait  of  a  violinist,  Ruys- 
dael,  Ribera,  Antonio  da  Solari,  two  Bonafazios, 
Carpaccio,  Watteau,  Reynolds,  Jan  Steen,  Goya, 
Wilson,  Cuyp,  Raeburn,  Thomas  Lawrence  (por 
trait  of  John  Philpot  Curran),  Wouter  Knyff, 
Gainsborough,  Chardin,  Coello,  and  in  the  Na 
tional  Portrait  Gallery  section  characteristic 
heads  of  Jonathan  Swift  and  several  of  Samuel 
Lover,  one  by  Harwood,  the  other  self-painted. 
A  handsome  old  gentleman  he  must  have  been, 
and  a  versatile.  He  is  Victor  Herbert's  grand 
father  —  a  title  that  alone  gives  him  celebrity. 
Verily,  you  exclaim  as  you  go  out  upon  aristo- 

293 


DEAR  OLD  DUBLIN 

cratic  Merrion  Square,  recalling  in  appearance 
both  Washington  Square  and  Rittenhouse  Square 
(Philadelphia),  verily,  Dublin  is  the  great  unex 
plored  for  the  majority  of  travellers. 


294 


VII 
FIGHTING   FAT  AT   MARIENBAD 

NATURALLY,  you  must  be  fat,  else  a  trip  to 
northwestern  Bohemia,  where  lies  the  charming 
little  town  of  Marienbad,  may  result  in  the  ac 
quisition  of  avoirdupois,  for,  oh,  brethren !  Pilsen 
is  only  a  few  hours  away  —  Pilsen,  where  the 
amber  brew  is  beautifully  brewed.  Eating,  too, 
is  one  of  the  seven  arts.  And  once  in  Pilsen, 
farewell  to  shapes  of  slimness,  farewell  normal 
necks  and  wrists  and  waists.  Jules  Laforgue, 
that  brilliant  young  Frenchman  who  was  psy 
chologist  before  poet,  remarked  upon  the  pe 
culiar  arrogance  and  imperturbability  that  large 
majestic  women  exhibit.  His  explanation  of 
their  attitude  toward  life  proves  his  keen  vision. 
"Get  avant  de  notre  personne,"  he  declares, 
surely  breeds  a  feeling  of  superiority,  leads  to  a 
pompous  gait  and  a  condescending  manner. 
Wasn't  it  Dickens  who  compared  women  of  cer 
tain  weight  to  a  ship  of  battle  with  all  sails  set  ? 
When  you  have  achieved  the  eminence  from 
which  you  gaze  across  your  own  bulk  at  your  fel 
low  beings,  then  it  is  time  for  a  reduction  cure 
at  Marienbad.  I  had,  some  time  ago,  reached 
that  interesting  period  when  my  friends  didn't 

295 


FIGHTING  FAT  AT  MARIENBAD 

hesitate  to  poke  me  in  the  ribs  —  or  where  the 
ribs  should  have  been  —  and  advised  me  to  join 
the  fat  men's  club,  any  member  of  which  must 
not  weigh  less  than  two  hundred  pounds,  else  be 
expelled  from  that  paradise  of  clambakes  and 
beefsteak  dinners.  So  I  went  to  Marienbad, 
and,  incredible  as  it  may  sound,  stopped  at 
Pilsen  only  long  enough  to  drink  a  glass  of  water. 
The  water  was  not  cold,  though  the  heat  was 
tropical,  and  it  cost  one  penny  for  the  glass. 
But  I  paid  it.  I  had  taken  the  first  step  in  the 
steep  path  that  leads  up  the  mount  of  martyr 
dom. 

Marienbad  is  not  difficult  of  access.  Five 
hours  from  Berlin  on  the  fast  express  (there  are 
slow  ones  in  Germany),  a  day  from  Paris,  and, 
if  you  happen  to  be  at  Karlsbad,  you  can  go  over 
in  less  than  two  hours.  It  may  be  that  I  am 
not  a  fanatic  on  the  subject  of  fighting  fat. 
Every  train-load  winding  through  the  valleys 
and  over  the  hills  of  Bohemia  carries  sceptics. 
Your  reasonable  objections  are  pooh-poohed  out 
of  court,  and  the  fabulous  tales  are  related  of 
friends  losing  ten  pounds  a  day  for  thirty  days 
and  then  gaining  thirty  pounds  in  thirty  hours 
—  or  some  such  rigmarole.  The  number  of 
Germans  I  met  after  my  arrival  on  the  Kaiser- 
strasse,  the  main  street,  convinced  me  that  the 
Lord  loves  a  good  liar,  no  matter  his  nationality. 
Two  conspicuous  things  smote  my  consciousness 
when  I  had  been  ten  minutes  in  Marienbad. 
One  was  the  number  of  fat,  healthy  men  and 
296 


FIGHTING  FAT  AT  MARIENBAD 

women;  the  other  was  the  unusual  display  of 
food,  whether  in  delicatessen  shops,  confection 
ery  stores,  bakeries;  food  —  and  drink  —  is  the 
staple  of  the  place.  It  took  some  time  before 
I  conjoined  these  two  signs  and  the  closeness  of 
cause  and  effect.  After  a  tour  of  the  restau 
rants  and  cafes  it  burst  upon  me  that  the  "cure" 
was  only  an  incentive  to  hunger  and  thirst,  that 
even  if  your  particular  hell  was  paved  with  good 
intentions,  the  temptations  to  gorge  and  guzzle 
were  manifold.  Where,  this  side  of  the  fabled 
city  in  which  roasted  larks  fall  from  the  skies, 
can  you  find  such  a  bewitching  array  of  good 
things  to  eat  as  at  Marienbad?  The  windows 
are  stuffed  to  overflowing  with  fowl,  game,  fruit, 
and  the  toothsome  cakes  called  oblaten.  At 
dusk  when  you  return  from  a  thirteen-mile 
walk,  footsore,  thirsty,  starving  —  you,  being  an 
obedient  patient,  have  had  cold  ham,  and,  later, 
weak  tea  for  dinner  —  the  artful  shopmen  flaunt 
before  your  eyes  a  stupendous  array  of  food  and 
drink.  You  stand  agape  at  the  Tantalus  vision, 
and  then,  if  you  are  strong,  you  pass  sadly  on 
to  more  cold  ham,  more  weak  tea.  I  modified 
this  first  judgment  later,  for,  in  a  collection  of 
many  thousand  people,  there  are  a  few  who  are 
consistent,  who  adhere  to  the  rules  laid  down  by 
the  doctors.  However,  the  authorities  shouldn't 
allow  the  weak-minded  to  be  tempted.  The 
shop-windows  should  be  closed  after  dark,  and 
the  restaurants  forced  to  hide  their  diners  be 
hind  screens.  An  ascetic  fresh  from  his  Thebaid 
297 


FIGHTING  FAT  AT  MARIENBAD 

would  shiver  at  the  sight  of  all  these  well-fed 
persons  stuffing  meat  —  yes,  and  potatoes,  too 
—  and  pouring  down  Pilsner  from  jugs  fit  for 
the  throat  of  a  giraffe.  And  further  inviting 
the  advances  of  old  Uncle  Uric  (acid),  as  Acton 
Davies  affectionately  calls  him. 

Infinitely  discouraged,  then,  during  my  first 
evening,  because  of  these  pagan-like  evidences  of 
revolt,  I  could  not  help  thinking  of  .^Esop  and  his 
choice  fable,  wherein  the  members  rise  up  in  rebel 
lion  against  the  stomach  and  are  speedily  quelled 
by  that  organ.  The  doctors,  I  reflected,  may 
prescribe  the  strictest  regimen;  the  waters  may 
be  religiously  drunk  every  morning,  but  at  eight 
o'clock  in  the  evening  that  primal  old  rebel,  that 
Lucifer  among  the  bodily  organs  —  the  stomach 
—  will  exact  due  toll  and  homage  for  the  hard 
ships  imposed  upon  it  during  the  daytime. 
Wondering  why  I  did  not  stop  over  at  Pilsen, 
I  fell  asleep  and  dreamed  of  a  brewery  in  which 
the  waiters  and  guests  were  awful-appearing 
skeletons.  The  next  day  I  sought  a  physician. 
Both  an  individual  and  a  type,  he  regarded  me 
with  cynical,  roguish  eyes.  "You  Americans," 
he  observed,  "expect  to  bolt  your  meals,  take  no 
exercise  except  in  express  elevators,  then  come 
to  Marienbad  and  lose  five  pounds  a  day  with 
out  feeling  nervous.  I  don't  believe  in  taking 
off  fat  too  fast."  Slap  number  two  was  this, 
and  straight  between  the  eyes.  A  doctor  in  full 
practice  at  Marienbad  who  didn't  believe  in 
rapid  reduction!  He  explained.  I  listened. 
298 


FIGHTING  FAT  AT  MARIENBAD 

Then  I  became  humble  and  determined  to  give 
the  "cure"  a  working  chance. 

At  six  o'clock  the  next  morning  I  was 
awakened  by  the  solemn  measures  of  a  Bach 
choral  played  by  the  local  orchestra,  and  as  I 
dressed  I  listened  to  some  excellent,  old-fashioned 
overtures,  seldom  heard  nowadays,  from  half- 
forgotten  operas  by  Auber,  Rossini,  and  Meyer 
beer.  They  proved  good  company  for  the 
grey  thoughts  of  the  neophyte.  Out  upon  the 
esplanade  I  fancied  myself  in  fairy-land;  it  was 
the  kind  of  operatic  landscape  one  sees  on  the 
stage.  The  huge  promenade  was  bustling  with 
humans;  men  in  silk  hats  and  jackets;  women 
in  bath-robes,  wearing  diamonds;  Galician  Jews, 
with  oily  side-curls,  their  eyes  bent  on  the  earth, 
muttering  prayers  as  they  paraded;  fat  people 
and  lean;  fatter  people  than  I  ever  saw  before 
at  a  given  point  —  and  every  one  carrying  grad 
uated  glasses,  suggestively  pharmaceutical  - 
sipping,  staring,  chattering;  above  all,  staring. 
Then  there  was  a  mad  rush  to  a  certain  point; 
even  the  long  line  of  those  who  patiently  awaited 
their  turn  at  the  spring  was  broken.  Somebody 
of  eminence  approached.  Looking  very  much 
like  a  prosperous  Hebraic  Wall  Street  banker, 
the  King  of  England  went  by  with  a  remarkably 
spry  gait  for  a  man  of  his  years.  He  was  ac 
companied  by  his  friend  Captain  Fitz  Ponsonby 
and  Sir  Stanley  Clark. 

We  looked  after  him  with  the  rest,  and,  as  we 
were  very  curious,  joined  the  thronging  crowd 
299 


FIGHTING  FAT  AT  MARIENBAD 

that  doged  his  movements.  King  Edward  VII 
was  very  popular.  The  poor  Polish  Jews  fairly 
worshipped  him,  for  he  was  sympathetic.  As 
if  the  earth  contained  no  bomb-throwing  as 
sassins,  the  King  of  Great  Britain  and  Emperor 
of  the  Indies  came  down  every  morning  of  his 
two  weeks'  sojourn  at  seven  o'clock  precisely. 
His  valet  handed  him  a  glass,  a  glass  tube, 
and  a  red  napkin.  He  drank,  walked,  talked, 
and  if  the  day  were  fine,  laughed.  Such  a 
hearty,  unaffected  laugh  you  do  not  hear  often 
from  the  lungs  of  a  young  man.  Everything 
amused  him.  He  had  forgotten  affairs  of  state, 
forgotten,  too,  tedious  ceremonial.  He  wore  a 
loose-fitting  flannel  or  tweed  and  sported  an 
Alpine  stalker  upon  his  imperial  brow.  When  he 
stopped,  several  thousand  people  stopped;  when 
he  paused  to  pay  a  pretty  shop-girl  in  the  Colon 
nade  a  compliment,  a  gratified  murmur  was  heard 
in  the  vast  mob.  He  had  done  a  popular  thing 
and  that  girl  is  marked  for  life.  She  will  tell 
her  grandchildren  of  the  royal  blue  eyes  and 
the  perfect  royal  German  accent.  A  few  secret- 
service  men  kept  close  to  the  exalted  visitor,  but, 
as  one  old  Bohemian  said:  "The  King  of  Eng 
land  can  do  what  the  King  of  Austria  cannot, 
even  in  his  own  realm ! " 

The  day  the  King  of  Greece  appeared  and  with 
Sir  Arthur  Goschen  stood  and  gossiped  with 
Edward  VII,  excitement  ran  so  high  that  the  next 
day  the  Burgomaster  plastered  the  town  with 
the  announcement  that  such  enthusiasm  must  be 
300 


gently  discouraged.  Karlsbad,  boiling  over  with 
envy,  was  in  the  seventh  heaven.  "Mobbed  the 
King  of  England  "  was  the  head-line  in  the  local 
newspapers.  But  when  the  King  went  over 
one  afternoon  to  Karlsbad  in  a  motor-car,  he 
was  literally  forced  to  go  indoors  so  persistent 
was  the  sightseeing  crowd  of  that  place. 

However,  kings  and  dukes,  princesses  and 
dames  of  high  degree  are  so  many  bubbles  on 
the  surface  of  the  tranquil  Marienbad  waters. 
We  go  there  to  be  cured  —  or  to  get  a  new  appe 
tite,  or  bath ;  and  while  it  is  mildly  exhilarating 
to  rub  shoulders  with  the  mighty  ones  of  the 
earth,  it  is  far  more  important  to  secure  a  seat 
for  breakfast. 

Your  water  drunk,  you  go  for  your  breakfast  at 
Utscheg's.  After  many  futile  wanderings,  climb 
ing  to  Cafe  Panorama  or  Cafe  Egerlander  for 
the  first  meal,  I  came  to  the  conclusion  that  man 
may  dispense  with  landscapes  at  dawn,  if  his 
coffee  be  near  at  hand.  So  to  a  modest  chalet 
I  repaired  at  eight  o'clock,  resolved  to  drink 
weak  tea  and  eat  but  one  soft-boiled  egg.  Alas ! 
I  always  drank  coffee  and  took  two  eggs.  My 
doctor  had  said:  "Do  not  starve  yourself" 
as  he  did  not  favour  swift  flesh  reduction.  After 
breakfast  arose  the  important  question  of  the 
day:  which  walk  should  one  take?  If  you  are 
not  lucky  enough  to  secure  permission  from  your 
doctor  to  bathe  at  the  Turkish  or  mud-baths 
there  is  nothing  left  for  you  but  trotting.  The 
walks  of  Marienbad !  It  is  a  proud  municipal 
301 


FIGHTING  FAT  AT  MARIENBAD 

boast  that  not  in  Bohemia  is  there  such  a  variety 
of  shaded,  romantic,  and  toilsome  walks.  This 
seems  to  be  true.  The  hills  are  not  so  high  as  at 
Karlsbad;  they  are  prettier,  and  the  sweep  of 
country  you  catch  at  the  top  of  the  Cafe  Pano 
rama  or  Cafe  Riibezahl  is  most  inspiring.  The 
Bavarian  mountains  in  the  dim  distance  and  the 
dense  Bohemian  forests;  a  country  that  rolls 
with  green  reverberations  in  the  golden  sunshine, 
a  naturally  romantic  landscape  trained  by  ar 
tistic  gardeners;  a  mass  of  marble  and  granite 
structures,  imposing  in  size,  graceful  in  archi 
tectural  line;  all  these  framed  by  pine-trees  and 
a  melting  southern  sky  —  you  feel  as  you  fill 
your  lungs  with  the  pure,  sweet-smelling  air, 
that  there  are  few  such  spots  as  Marienbad  on 
our  globe. 

And  the  everlasting  twistings  and  turnings 
of  the  forest  paths;  the  mystic  twilight  of  the 
wooded  avenues;  the  sheer  ascent  to  some  re 
mote  peak  where  coffee  and  conversation  crown 
your  tired  feet  for  a  small  fee!  Then  in  some 
sudden  secret  glade  which  seems  all  your  own, 
as  you  dream  of  St.  Wenceslaus,  the  patron  saint 
of  Bohemia,  of  brave  John  Huss,  or  of  the  rus 
tling  melodies  of  Antonin  Dvorak  —  you  enjoy 
better  in  his  native  land  his  music  —  suddenly 
a  ponderous  figure  bars  your  path.  Mayhap 
you  have  heard  it  before  you  have  seen  it,  an 
elephant  crushing  through  the  underbrake.  It 
weighs  at  least  three  hundred,  and  smilingly 
attempts  to  pass.  When  fat  meets  fat  then 
302 


FIGHTING  FAT  AT  MARIENBAD 

comes  the  tug  of  tact.  Two  hats  are  lifted  as 
the  weaker  —  the  thinner  —  goes  to  the  wall,  or 
sits  down,  or  cowers  against  the  hillside.  Thus 
is  your  dream  disturbed  a  dozen  times  a  day. 
As  the  monster  puffs  noisily  from  view  you  ten 
tatively  remark  to  your  companion:  "I  hope 
I'm  not  as  big  as  that  animal,"  while  the  answer, 
though  not  consoling,  is  invariably  the  same: 
"No,  but  you  soon  will  be  if  you  don't  obey  the 
doctor."  Yes,  mild  as  are  the  injunctions  of 
the  doctor,  he  is  not  always  obeyed.  The  spirit 
is  willing  but  the  flesh  is  ever  athirst  and  ahun- 
gered.  There  are  rainy  days  (and  how  it  can 
rain  in  the  land  of  the  Czechs !),  when  the  whole 
scheme  of  creation  needs  readjustment,  not  to 
mention  this  miserable  little  Marienbad.  There 
are  hot  days  when  the  thought  of  an  ice-cream 
soda  drives  one  almost  delirious.  There  are 
sombre  evenings,  when,  to  see  fat  men  drinking 
cool  Pilsner  —  oh,  why  continue  ?  These  things 
happen  to  every  one.  They  are  not  serious  de 
terrents  to  the  good  cause.  There  are  brave 
days  when  you  walk  fifteen  miles,  live  on  tea 
without  milk  or  sugar,  and  spinach  (doleful, 
gritty  spinach),  and  the  eternal  ham;  neverthe 
less,  the  scales  tell  you  agreeable  news,  and  your 
head  feels  as  cool,  as  empty  as  a  gourd  in  a  cellar. 
You  pityingly  sneer  at  the  fattest  man  —  he 
weighs  over  four  hundred,  wears  a  red  necktie, 
and  is  always  eating  candy  or  ices  —  and  you 
know  that  life  is  worth  while.  The  unhappy  chap 
told  me  that  formerly  he  was  a  chef  at  the  royal 

3°3 


FIGHTING  FAT  AT  MARIENBAD 

palace,  Potsdam,  but  champagne  had  been  his 
ruin.  The  following  season  I  was  informed  he 
died.  One  comical  sight  was  the  small  peasant 
boy  who  followed  him  with  a  chair  —  he  had  to 
sit  down  every  few  minutes.  He  assured  me 
that  he  had  lost  over  one  hundred  pounds  dur 
ing  the  season. 

On  fine  days  you  occupy,  if  so  inclined,  the 
rustic  spot  where  Goethe  rested  —  he  was  a 
visitor  in  1821— or  else  gaze  upon  the  house 
where  lived,  in  1845,  Richard  Wagner.  Chopin, 
too,  was  there  in  1836.  Then,  after  these 
sentimental  pilgrimages,  you  become  prosaic 
and  have  yourself  weighed.  You  retire  exult- 
ingly  to  a  cafe,  for  you  have  lost  ten  pounds 
in  ten  days.  How  did  it  come  about?  Your 
doctor  looks  wise  and  tells  you  that  the  waters  — 
Yes,  the  waters;  rather  not  the  waters,  that  is, 
no  water  at  meals.  The  secret  of  Marienbad 
is  yours  when  you  have  mastered  this  point. 
The  waters  are  mild,  almost  tasteless;  two  or 
three  glasses  a  day  is  all  you  are  asked  to  con 
sume.  Glauber  salts  is  the  chief  ingredient.  At 
the  Rudolfsquelle  the  relief  from  gouty  pains 
is  rapid.  But  are  the  waters  everything  at 
Marienbad  ?  The  answer  is  a  decided  negative. 
Remember  that  thousands  are  cured  annually 
of  various  ills.  Can  it  be  done  elsewhere  ?  Yes. 
In  twenty-two  days  I  lost  twenty-two  pounds. 
Walking,  dieting,  early  in  bed,  early  rising,  in 
comparably  fresh  air  — all  these  make  for 
health,  for  fat-destroying,  for  muscle-building, 

304 


FIGHTING  FAT  AT  MARIENBAD 

blood-purifying.  Yet  I  affirm  with  all  the 
solemnity  of  a  man  who  won  back  his  adipose 
tissue  six  months  after  his  return  to  New  York, 
that  the  secret  of  reduction  is  so  simple  that  it 
usually  escapes  the  attention  of  the  patients 
who  travel  so  many  miles  to  find  it.  It  is  this: 
Don't  drink  with  your  meals  —  tea,  coffee, 
water,  wine,  beer,  vinegar,  or  poison  —  not  a 
drop  two  hours  before  or  after  eating!  All 
the  mountain  air,  scenery,  carbonic-acid  waters 
avail  not  if  you  absorb  liquids  while  you  eat. 
This  is  the  famous  Schweniger  cure  that  Bis 
marck  found  so  beneficial.  If  you  plumply  put 
the  question  to  your  doctor  — •  there  are  hun 
dreds  of  medical  men  camped  in  and  about 
Marienbad  —  he  is  apt  to  answer  you  enig 
matically.  The  full  force  of  the  discovery 
dawns  on  you  after  you  leave  the  town.  In 
Central  Park  you  can  take  the  waters  at  the 
pavilion,  walk  from  Fifty-ninth  to  One  Hundred 
and  Tenth  Streets  and  back,  go  home,  eat  break 
fast,  avoid  liquids  at  meals,  and  four  weeks  later 
you  will  have  pulled  off  from  ten  to  twenty 
pounds.  I  know  this  from  experience.  But 
there  is  the  sea  trip;  there  is  the  fair  land  of 
Bohemia;  there  is  Marienbad,  a  white  city  of 
miniature  palaces  and  castellated  heights  — 
during  moonlight  the  Cafe  Riibezahl  is  like  a 
frozen  fairy-tale  —  with  its  air,  its  freedom  from 
the  fashionable  crowds  of  hill-hemmed  Karlsbad, 
its  romantic  surroundings,  its  moderate  tariff, 
and  its  perpetual  eating  and  drinking  (such 

305 


FIGHTING  FAT  AT  MARIENBAD 

cookery!),  and  its  weighing  machines.  When 
you  are  tired  of  the  music  you  get  yourself 
weighed.  When  you  are  weary  of  walking  you 
listen  to  the  band.  There  are  less  interesting 
watering-places  on  the  map  than  Marienbad  - 
and  there  is  always  Pilsen  forty  miles  away.  So, 
if  you  would  fight  your  fat  pleasantly  and  dis 
tribute  your  Yankee  dollars  —  go  to  Marienbad, 
and  don't  forget  to  close  your  eyes  when  you 
pass  the  confectionery  shops  or  the  cafes.  That 
way  fat  lies. 


306 


PART  III 
SAND  AND   SENTIMENT 


I 

ATLANTIC  CITY 

WHEN  in  the  course  of  human  events  it  be 
comes  necessary  for  a  man  to  study  his  own 
people,  let  him  select  the  excellent  old  summer 
time  for  such  a  purpose ;  let  him  go  down  to  the 
sea  in  Pullmans  or  naphtha  launches;  let  him, 
with  observant  and  kindly  eye,  note  the  pecu 
liarities  of  the  nation  in  which  he  is  an  unimpor 
tant  factor,  and  he  may  see  things  —  many 
things  undreamed  of  in  his  little  European- 
saturated  philosophy. 

Let  us  pose  a  possible  case.  A  traveller,  rest 
less  because  he  has  seen  or  fancied  he  has  seen 
all  Europe,  resolves  to  stay  on  his  native  soil 
for  one  summer.  From  much  globe-trotting  he 
has  not  become  blase,  he  still  emulates  Dr.  Syn 
tax  in  his  pursuit  of  the  picturesque;  but  his 
conscience  begins  to  ring  accusatory  alarm-bells. 
You  know  Sorrento,  but  do  you  know  Cape 
May  ?  You  have  patrolled  the  beach  at  Scheve- 
ningen,  but  do  you  know  the  delights  of  Atlantic 
City's  Boardwalk  ?  Can  you  offhand  say  whether 
Bailey's  Beach  has  as  good  surf  as  Seabright? 
Newport  vs.  New  Jersey.  Do  they  sell  you 
worse  imitation  Havanas  at  Southampton  or  at 

3°9 


ATLANTIC  CITY 

Richfield  Springs?  Where  is  the  most  pessi 
mistic  beer  served  on  the  Atlantic  coast?  Can 
you  answer  one  of  these  profoundly  interesting 
questions  ? 

Why?  Because  you  don't  know  your  own 
country.  Because  you  don't  know  how  it 
chooses  to  amuse  itself  during  the  heated  term. 
Because  you  do  know  that  it  always  rains  in 
Salzburg;  that  it  is  always  hot  and  high-priced 
in  Paris;  that  you  sit  up  too  late  in  Berlin  and 
retire  too  early  in  London.  My  possible  case 
is  not  a  representative  American,  though  he  is 
by  no  means  a  myth.  You  know  him.  I  know 
him.  And  the  sign  whereby  he  may  be  recog 
nised  is  this:  his  superior  airs  and  his  manner 
of  calling  a  coloured  waiter  gargon  or  Kellner. 
Otherwise  he  couldn't  tell  the  difference  between 
a  Da  Vinci  and  a  Carlo  Dolci,  a  Bach  fugue  and 
a  Nuremberg  sausage.  The  gilt  of  his  too  rapidly 
acquired  culture  is  apt  to  become  blurred  by 
ocean's  rude  breezes. 

Consider  me  for  the  moment  as  one  of  those 
self-expatriated  compatriots,  but  one  of  humble 
spirit,  one  willing  to  learn,  and  one  to  whom  the 
great  idea  made  a  visit  and  a  proposition.  Sup 
pose,  said  the  tempter,  you  made  the  acquain 
tance  of  the  Americans  at  play !  Suppose  you 
try  to  forget  noisy  New  York  for  a  day,  a  week, 
a  month,  and  range  boldly  up  and  down  seeking 
forth  prey  for  your  pen,  recording  daily  what  you 
see,  imagining  nothing  but  divining  much.  Sup 
pose,  in  a  word,  you  take  a  peep  at  the  real  world, 
310 


ATLANTIC   CITY 

not  at  a  few  hundred  luxurious  people,  and  en 
deavour  to  escape  the  obsession  of  those  you 
fancy  to  be  the  elect  in  art  and  life  and  litera 
ture.  What  a  "bath  of  multitude"  you  will 
give  your  convention-weary  soul;  how  you  will 
refresh  your  eyes,  too  long  accustomed  to  Broad 
way  and  its  brass  bands! 

I  confess  I  listened  to  the  voice  of  the  tempter, 
and  here  am  I,  in  Atlantic  City,  quite  oblivious 
to  Budapest  or  Copenhagen  and  positively  ab 
sorbed  in  the  novelty  of  the  situation.  For  you 
it  would  be  a  thrice-told  tale,  signifying  a  sum 
mer  outing.  For  me  it  is  as  if  I  had  fallen  asleep 
in  Peru  and  awakened  in  Philadelphia  —  with 
a  difference.  Consider  me,  then,  as  consulting 
time-tables,  as  discussing  various  routes  to  the 
sea.  It  was  terra-nova  for  me.  I  saw  with 
the  eye  of  the  newly  born  —  at  least,  I  hope  I 
did.  I  confused  the  man  in  the  office  by  asking 
for  a  first-class  ticket  for  Atlantic  City.  He 
jeered.  Then  I  remembered  I  was  in  the  land 
of  equality,  where  a  man  could  make  himself 
superior  to  his  fellow  beings  and  also  uncom 
fortable  by  paying  for  seats  in  a  parlor  coach. 

The  psychology  of  Atlantic  City !  It  is  a  bold 
man  who  will  attempt  its  elucidation.  It  has 
no  moral  landscape,  though  it  boasts  the  finest 
of  seascapes.  If  there  were  already  invented, 
as  there  will  be  some  day,  a  psychical  cinemato 
graph,  then,  perhaps,  a  complete  picture  could 
be  presented  of  this  fascinating  and  vulgar  re 
sort  —  for  vulgar  in  the  sense  of  popularity  it  is, 


ATLANTIC   CITY 

monumentally  vulgar,  epically  vulgar  —  epical 

—  that  is  the  word.     There  is  a  sweep  of  colour, 
a  breeziness  of  space,  a  riot  of  sound,  and  a 
chaos  of  movement  that  appal  by  their  ampli 
tude.     All    creation    seems   out-of-doors.     You 
jostle  elbows  with  the  man  from  Hindustan,  the 
man  from  Newark,  the  man  from  London,  and 
the  man  from  California.     Black,  white,  yellow, 
red,  and  brown  races  mingle  on  the  Boardwalk 
in  that  never-ending  promenade  from  the  Inlet 
to  the  new  pier.     Between  the  Pickle  pier  and 
the  Marlborough-Blenheim  the  course  of  hu 
manity  takes  its  way.     In  that  section  it  is 
thickest.     You  use  the  short-arm  jolt  at  every 
other  step,  and  you  wonder,  if  it  is  so  bad  at 
the  beginning  of  the  season,  what  it  will  be  next 
week.     In  fifteen  minutes  you  long  for  the  com 
parative  ease  of  the  rush  hour  on  the  Brooklyn 
Bridge. 

But  how  to  "  decompose"  this  swirling  ka 
leidoscope  into  the  semblance  of  a  picture? 
You  may  have  come  over  from  idyllic  Cape  May, 
where  the  locust  clicks  at  noon  and  the  cricket 
twitches  a  duet  with  the  booming  frogs  after 
sundown.  You  may  have  come  from  Ocean 
City  by  boat  to  Longport,  thence  by  trolley  to 
your  hotel.  Confused  by  the  change,  looking 
vainly  for  old  landmarks,  a  prey  to  various  ap 
prehensions—hotel  prices,  the  rapacity  of 
porters  and  hackmen,  the  insolence  of  waiters 

—  you  fall  into  the  nearest  house  and  wish  you 
hadn't  five  minutes  later.    However,  you  are 

312 


ATLANTIC   CITY 

on  the  beach,  and  as  you  remove  your  dripping 
linen  you  sigh  for  New  York.  But  that  is  be 
cause  Atlantic  City  has  not  begun  to  work  its 
deadly  spell.  As  a  rule,  the  first  ten  minutes  in 
a  strange  place  is  a  period  of  disenchantment. 
To  orient  one's  self  takes  at  least  an  hour.  The 
barber  and  a  cooling  cup  of  tea  (I  said  "tea"!) 
are  great  aids  to  the  shy  spirit  of  man.  If  you 
have  not  to  formulate  your  impressions  on  paper, 
then,  lucky  one,  fear  nothing  except  the  occa 
sional  mosquito.  After  the  paucity  of  ideas 
aroused  by  such  a  simple  spot  as  Cape  May, 
the  visions,  complex,  multitudinous,  that  pour 
in  upon  your  sensorium  at  Atlantic  City  are 
very  disturbing.  Where  to  begin!  Where  to 
end !  Doubtless  the  best  way  would  be  to  de 
scribe  the  Boardwalk  by  day  and  by  night,  then 
trot  about  the  hotels,  make  a  short  dash  to  the 
Inlet,  another  to  Longport,  and  —  home.  But 
you  would  not  have  compassed  even  the  super 
ficies  of  the  island.  There  is  a  different  Atlantic 
City  every  hour.  To  register  accurately  its 
shifting  moods  of  the  moment  would  need  the 
combined  pens  of  Gautier,  Zola,  and  Mark 
Twain. 

When  our  gifted  gang  of  young  fiction  miners 
are  quite  through  imitating  Bret  Harte  and 
Buffalo  Bill  in  the  depiction  of  a  Wild  West  that 
never  existed,  when  they  have  finished  currying 
the  national  mane,  let  them  turn  to  Atlantic 
City  as  a  more  fruitful  theme.  It's  broad  ave 
nue  of  wood  by  the  sea  will  be  supplanted  by 

3*3 


ATLANTIC   CITY 

concrete  in  time.  The  medley  of  life,  the  roar 
ing  of  megaphones  instead  of  newspapers,  the 
frantic  rush  and  indescribable  gabble  of  a 
Babel-like  chorus,  the  dazzling  single  line  of 
booths,  stores,  divans,  holes-in-the-wall  hotels, 
cafes,  carousels,  soda-fountains,  shows;  the 
buzzing  of  children,  the  shouting  newsboys,  the 
appeals  of  fakers,  the  quick  glance  of  her  eye, 
the  scowl  of  beach  hawks  and  the  innocent  mien 
of  bucolics  —  a  Walt  Whitman  catalogue  would 
not  exhaust  this  new  metropolis  by  the  sea,  this 
paradise  of  "powerful,  uneducated  persons," 
patricians,  millionaires,  and  mendicants.  In 
the  foreground  a  brilliant  sea  with  its  "husky 
haughty  lips";  as  a  background  against  a  limpid 
western  sky-line  is  set  a  row  of  hotels,  some 
palaces,  some  breath-catching,  many  common 
place.  And  the  piers  —  the  Steel  pier,  the 
Auditorium,  Young's,  Heinz's,  and  the  new 
million-dollar  steel-and-concrete  pier  of  John 
Young,  completed  some  time;  another  city,  a 
second  Atlantic  City,  on  steel  and  iron  stilts 
extending  a  half-mile  into  the  water,  containing 
a  half-hundred  diversions  —  what  shall  we  say 
to  these  piers?  They  may  recall  the  evolution 
from  the  lake-dwellers  of  central  Europe,  whose 
lacustrine  deposits  we  marvel  over,  just  as  huge 
structures,  reared  in  the  air,  the  modern  hotels 
are  the  highly  developed  habitat  of  the  cliff- 
dwellers.  Doubtless  five  thousand  years  hence 
ardent  geologists  will  rummage  into  the  de 
posits  of  Atlantic  City  and  erect  systems  on  the 


ATLANTIC   CITY 

strange  shapes  discovered,  the  combs,  corsets, 
shovels,  hairpins,  flasks,  and  other  "  kitchen 
midden"  of  our  days  that  will  have  been  buried. 

Atlantic  City  is  a  queer  cosmopolis,  and  a 
cosmopolis  that  may  perish  easily  in  a  giant 
inundation,  so  closely  does  it  crowd  the  rim  of 
the  sea.  I  called  it  vulgar.  It  is,  and  ugly, 
too,  with  that  absorbing  ugliness  of  modern  life; 
but  it  is  also  many  other  things.  Not  Ostend, 
not  Dieppe,  not  Brighton  (England),  not  Trou- 
ville,  not  Scheveningen,  not  Boulogne,  nor 
Etretat,  Abbazia,  nor  Cuxhaven,  Naples,  nor 
the  Riviera  rival  its  infinite  variety.  Yet  if  you 
wish  to  loaf  and  invite  your  soul,  Cape  May  is 
preferable.  Atlantic  City  is  not  a  retreat  for 
the  introspective;  it  is  all  on  the  surface;  it  is 
hard,  glittering,  unspeakably  cacophonous,  and 
it  never  sleeps  at  all.  Three  days  and  you 
crave  the  comparative  solitude  of  Broadway 
and  Thirty-fourth  Street;  a  week  and  you  may 
die  of  insomnia. 

There  is  in  reality  no  type  of  American  girl 
hood.  When  you  hear  of  the  summer  girl  you 
may  be  sure  that  the  phrase  was  invented  by 
the  same  lazy-minded  male  who  created  the 
matinee  girl.  Both  exist  only  on  paper.  A 
stroll  along  the  Boardwalk  will  prove  this. 
Every  variety  of  girl  passes  you.  She  is  dark 
haired  and  red,  blond,  and  brunette.  Her  nose 
is  long  and  thin,  thick,  Grecian,  or  upturned  like 
the  petal  of  a  rose.  But  she  is  pretty  in  her 
undistinguished  way.  Pretty  girls  are  really 


ATLANTIC  CITY 

as  thick  as  politicians.  The  interesting  girl  is 
rare.  They  all  dress  with  admirable  taste, 
possibly  not  without  an  overaccentuation  of 
colour  —  a  tropical  profuseness,  one  might  add. 
However,  it  is  hot  weather,  and  —  one  thing 
we  forget  —  America  is  the  tropics  during  July 
and  August.  In  the  genuine  tropics  they  dress 
accordingly;  we  do  not.  We  wear  abominable 
linen  and  leather  and  woolen;  therefore  a  little 
•".  latitude  in  the  cut  and  hue  of  women's  dress  is 
pardonable.  I  never  saw  such  a  forest  of  bare 
arms  before,  arms  held  slightly  in  rear  of  the 
body,  not  in  bathing  costume,  but  street  dress. 
And  such  shapely  arms !  A  Mahometan  would 
turn  his  head  the  other  way  if  he  spied  them. 
This  display  of  flesh  and  muscle,  coupled  with 
the  towering  head-dress  a  la  Pompadour,  gave 
me  an  impression  of  the  barbaric.  And  when 
I  saw  a  brace  of  dusky  belles  with  their  frizzly 
locks  puffed  up  in  the  same  extravagant  fash 
ion,  the  illusion  was  still  more  complete.  These 
descendants  of  Lybian  queens  are  nearer  the 
soil  than  their  white  sisters,  but  the  "pull" 
of  their  sex  made  them  all  row  in  the  same 
boat.  Such  costly  dressing,  such  huge  bow- 
knots  on  their  low  sleeves,  such  palimpsests 
of  veils  —  the  more  you  peel  off  the  farther  you 
are  from  the  face,  like  those  trick  boxes  of  con 
jurers  !  I  am  free  to  confess  that  the  American 
girls  I  saw  were  more  imposing  than  their  male 
escorts.  They  did,  indeed,  lack  a  certain  dis 
tinction,  and  the  English  you  heard  fall  from 
316 


ATLANTIC   CITY 

their  mouths  was  often  dreadful  —  not  dread 
ful  alone  because  of  its  slang  but  because  the 
intonation,  pronunciation,  and  enunciation  were 
so  careless,  so  slipshod,  so  deadly  common. 
These  are  sins  overheard  in  most  cities.  In 
Atlantic  City  they  salute  you  with  painful  em 
phasis.  But  what  a  carriage,  what  light-footed 
elegance,  what  perpetual  chewing  of  gum,  what 
a  mixture  of  twangs ! 

The  young  men  resolve  themselves  more 
easily  into  a  type  because  they  persist  in  dressing 
alike.  The  peg-top  trousers,  the  flaring  cut  of 
the  sack  coat,  the  flat  felt  hat,  the  gaudy  shirts 
and  ties  seem  from  the  same  shops.  You  notice 
with  grateful  eyes  that  the  tinted  waist  sash  has 
disappeared  and  that  hosiery  is  less  voluptuous 
in  design.  The  man  who  wears  naughty  socks 
is  a  man  lost  to  a  higher  purpose.  His  is  an 
essentially  trivial  mind;  for  him  Emerson  hath 
no  charm;  a  yellow  primrose  is  an  ever-yellow 
primrose  in  his  clockwork-haunted  eyes.  The 
notion  the  stranger  gleans  of  these  young  fellows 
is  that  they  are  a  well-meaning,  sturdy,  and 
slightly  hard-featured  lot.  They  shave  clean. 
The  square  jaw,  blue-grey  eyes,  and  short  nose 
betray  Celtic  or  Germanic  traces.  Their  fore 
bears  were  Irish  or  Teuton,  and  the  whole  mass 
is  leavened  by  a  generous  infusion  of  the  Eastern; 
you  see,  too,  the  olive  skin,  the  deep-cupped 
eyes,  crisp  locks,  and  brilliant  colouring  of  the 
Oriental.  Among  the  women  the  Semitic  is 
often  encountered,  and  invariably  the  ensemble 

317 


ATLANTIC  CITY 

is  harmonious,  the  figure  in  particular  attract 
ing  attention  by  its  richer  and  more  generous 
curves.  Of  the  purely  exotic  one  never  fails 
in  Atlantic  City;  Syrians,  Turks,  Indians,  Gip 
sies,  Armenians,  Russians,  Chinese,  Siamese, 
Japanese  —  the  beach  swarms  with  all  manner 
and  conditions  of  outlanders.  The  costumes 
are  correspondingly  picturesque. 

If  our  native  girls  seem  to  copy  in  carriage 
and  general  style  a  combination  of  Ethel  Barry- 
more  and  Maude  Adams,  the  young  men  affect 
the  rich  and  careless  collegian  attitude.  They 
would  have  us  believe  that  they  have  just  es 
caped  the  university.  It  is  when  the  inevitable 
African  brother  appears  that  comparisons  are 
ludicrous;  the  same  pancake  grey  felt,  the  same 
baggy  trousers,  the  same  belt  and  tie,  the  same 
stride  and  "stolid  demeanour."  It  is  a  time  for 
discreet  smiles.  Imitation  is  not  always  the 
most  agreeable  form  of  flattery. 

Away  from  the  ceaseless  patter  of  feet  and  the 
humming  of  many  tongues  you  escape  to  the 
beach.  It  is  the  hour  of  the  most  sacred  func 
tion  of  Atlantic  City  —  the  hour  of  the  bath. 
Apart  from  the  absence  of  the  little  bathing- 
houses  so  familiar  in  Europe,  from  which  you 
descend  solo  into  the  water,  there  is  not  a 
marked  difference  nowadays  between  the  cus 
toms  and  costumes  here  and  on  the  Continent. 
A  decade  ago  American  bathing  suits  were  de 
nounced  by  Europeans  as  wholly  wicked.  At 
Trouville  to-day  it  is  the  American  who  will  be 


ATLANTIC  CITY 

shocked.  To  be  sure,  our  mermaids  are  begin 
ning  to  discard  stockings;  the  effect  of  the 
glancing  sunshine  is  rather  disquieting.  After 
all,  Atlantic  City  is  devoted  to  the  ocean  for 
itself;  there  are  many  beach-combers  —  the 
girls  who  let  their  hair  down  to  dry  while  they 
make  living  sculpture  on  the  sand  and  beam 
on  their  favoured  young  man  browning  himself 
at  their  feet;  but  the  main  business  of  these  folk 
is  to  get  wet  and  enjoy  themselves  in  the  break 
ers;  also  to  fight  out  in  a  pleasant  spot  the 
never-ending  duel  of  the  sexes.  There  she 
goes,  tall,  alert,  plunging  in  recklessly,  riding 
the  curling  waves,  a  Galatea  in  silk. 

The  beach  is  a  noble  one  for  swimming,  though 
not  so  perfect  as  the  strand  at  Cape  May.  No 
table  d'hote  salutes  you  as  you  breast  the  water 
-  the  coast  is  free  from  sewage.  It  is  a  pity 
that  Atlantic  City  has  become  such  a  big  town. 
There  is  no  trolley  on  the  beach;  instead  it  runs 
from  the  Inlet  through  Atlantic  Avenue,  which 
is  very  businesslike,  as  far  as  Albany  Avenue 
before  the  ocean  is  seen,  but  after  that  there  is 
a  superb  vista  until  you  reach  Longport,  not 
missing  the  elephant  on  the  way.  Nine  miles 
and  more  is  the  distance  you  may  travel  on  this 
trolley-line.  The  great  number  of  hotels  and 
cottages  have  robbed  the  place  of  all  its  old 
rustic  al  fresco  charm.  Even  Brigantine  Beach 
has  succumbed  to  the  superior  magnetism  of  the 
larger  city  and  to-day  is  moribund.  There  are 
railroads,  hotels,  steamboat  service  on  this  once- 


ATLANTIC  CITY 

famous  resort  across  the  Inlet,  but,  notwith 
standing  the  large  sums  of  money  expended,  it 
has  gone  into  a  decadence,  let  us  hope  a  tempo 
rary  one.  Too  thickly  populated  in  summer 
time,  Atlantic  City,  when  a  land  breeze  blows, 
is  as  hot  as  any  inland  town  —  I  was  about  to 
say  hotter.  The  sun  beats  down  upon  your 
head  with  brassy  splendour.  There  is  no  shade 
excepting  the  piers  and  piazzas.  The  hotels 
are  stuffy,  and  at  the  end  of  the  piers  the  ther 
mometers  range  high.  In  the  water  is  the  only 
comfort  to  be  had.  Luckily  such  heat  is  infre 
quent  and  does  not  long  endure. 

Music  assails  your  ears  every  few  feet.  From 
the  howling  of  some  hideous  talking-machine 
to  the  loud,  confident  blaring  of  the  orchestra  of 
the  wooden  horses  and  wooden  rabbits  in  the 
carousel  you  can't  escape  noise.  Curiously 
enough,  Wagner  is  the  favourite  composer.  At 
Longport,  where  you  drink  cherry-bounce,  I 
heard  an  orchestrion  play  the  prelude  to  Die 
Meistersinger,  and  the  carousel  amazed  me  with 
its  shrill  performance  of  the  Valkyrie's  Ride. 
Lohengrin,  poor,  peerless  knight,  is  hacked  at 
by  mechanical  pianos  and  steam-organs.  Va 
rious  bands,  brass  and  wood- wind  predominating, 
attack  Wagner  in  piecemeal.  To  hear  an  Ital 
ian  orchestra  playing  the  andante  from  the  Fifth 
Symphony  of  Beethoven  on  the  pier  is  to  hear  a 
wonderful  misplacement  of  accents  and  expres 
sion.  Never  mind;  it's  better  than  ragtime. 
People  whistle  Wagner.  He  will  end  by  becom- 
320 


ATLANTIC   CITY 

ing  the  most  popular  composer  in  the  world  —  a 
horrible  fate  for  a  great  man.  To  add  to  this 
overwhelming  symphonic  olla  podrida  the  auto 
mobiles  and  their  tritone  whistles  bring  dismay 
to  your  ears  with  melancholy,  blood-curdling 
wails  like  those  of  a  banshee  on  the  night  when 
Larry  was  stretched. 

You  can  fish  in  the  Inlet,  sail  in  the  open.  I 
had  the  Bluebird  out  for  a  memorable  morning. 
Rockfish,  I  was  informed  by  a  facetious  person, 
are  caught  daily  and  of  great  size  at  the  Inlet. 
It  proved  to  be  my  merry  friend's  witticism  over 
the  efforts  of  enthusiastic,  misguided  men,  whose 
hooks  became  entangled  in  the  rocks,  when, 
thinking  they  had  a  bite,  they  attempted  to  up 
root  the  bottom  of  the  bay.  To  vary  the 
monotony  of  a  hot  afternoon  I  attended  a  game 
of  baseball  at  the  Inlet.  It  was  my  first.  I  do 
not  understand  the  game,  but  I  understand  the 
instinct  that  has  survived  from  the  bloody  spec 
tacle  of  the  antique  circus  and  is  reincarnated 
in  the  national  game.  Is  it  not  a  refined  form 
of  cruelty  to  force  full-grown  men  to  rush  about 
in  the  fiercest  sun's  rays  after  a  contemptibly 
small  ball,  tumbling  in  their  eagerness  to  please 
their  tyrants  in  the  grand-stand  and  on  the 
bleachers?  What  is  it  all  about?  I  saw  a  fat 
man  wearing  a  life-preserver  on  his  chest,  a  wire 
mask  on  his  face  and  shouting  signals  while 
dodging  the  wooden  club  with  which  the  ball  is 
attacked  —  that  is,  when  it  isn't  missed.  Men 
sprawl  in  the  gravel,  men  scream  angry  oaths, 
321 


ATLANTIC  CITY 

men  are  abused  with  vast  vociferousness  by  the 
spectators.  All  this  in  the  open  air,  with  the 
heat  furnace-like,  and  for  the  sake  of  a  pitiable 
ball.  Childhood's  game  of  tag  seems  more  sen 
sible;  golf  is  positively  intellectual  by  compar 
ison.  And  the  cruelty  of  it !  I  only  know  one 
other  form  of  diversion  more  cruel,  and  that  is  a 
piano  recital  wherein  a  pianist  plays  a  list  of 
twenty  compositions  from  Bach  to  Tschai- 
kowsky.  I  must  confess,  however,  that  this 
particular  game  had  its  humorous  compensa 
tions.  It  was  waged  between  the  Philadelphia 
Giants,  a  coloured  organisation,  and  the  Cuban 
Stars,  real  natives  of  the  Pearl  of  the  Antilles. 
As  the  score  was  three  to  one  at  the  close,  I  pre 
sume  the  Giants  walloped  the  Cubans.  A 
husky  giant,  black  as  a  solar  eclipse  and  on  third 
base,  kept  us  cool  by  chanting  at  intervals  the 
sad  story  of  his  bet  on  a  horse  named  Hydrant, 
a  horse  which  is  still  running.  This  Solomon 
lent  to  the  afternoon  an  air  of  distinction.  But 
I  was  as  thirsty  as  a  rainbow  before  the  affair 
was  concluded,  and  you  know  a  rainbow  is 
double-ended. 

At  a  hotel  I  saw  a  dozen  women,  their  fingers 
covered  with  opals,  emeralds,  and  sapphires, 
eating  green  corn  on  the  cob.  How  this  sight 
would  have  pleased  the  tempestuous  fancy  of 
M.  Paul  Adam,  who  has  written  a  book  about 
America!  The  dozen  mouths  opened  simul 
taneously,  pink  and  pearly  traps;  there  was  a 
snapping  of  dentals,  a  gnashing  of  corn.  The 
322 


ATLANTIC   CITY 

diamonds  flashed,  the  emeralds  blazed  with 
their  sinister  green,  and  the  troubled  milky  fire 
of  the  opals  matched  at  times  the  colour  of  the 
slaughtered  vegetables.  Surely  no  other  could 
enjoy  such  a  scintillating  death  at  the  teeth 
of  a  dozen  pretty  overdressed  matrons  and 
maids. 

I  have  seen  old  men,  whose  teeth  were  worn 
away  by  many  years  of  frozen  punch,  call  for 
three  kinds  of  dessert  —  the  summer  hotel  din 
ner  is  a  terrific  thing.  There  is  too  much  to 
choose  from,  and  one  eats  far  more  than  is  good 
for  him.  You  don't  have  to  swallow  everything, 
but  the  average  sensual  man  when  he  pays  five 
dollars  a  day  usually  tries  to  get  even  with  the 
landlord.  And  the  prices  are  on  the  upward 
move.  For  a  room  with  bath  you  pay  every 
where  five  dollars  and  extra  for  board.  Nor  am 
I  disposed  to  wax  patriotic  over  American  hotels. 
Europe  is  no  longer  the  place  where  comfort 
able,  well-lighted  rooms  with  bath  are  a  rarity. 
You  may  grumble  at  paying  twenty  marks  a 
day  for  your  room  at  the  Hotel  Bristol,  Berlin, 
but  you  are  given  a  big  marble  bath  sunk  in  the 
floor  and  a  reception  as  well  as  a  bed  room.  And 
this  at  the  most  expensive  hotel  in  Prussia. 
Compare  this  with  the  rooms  you  are  shown 
throughout  America  for  the  same  price.  I 
have  done  so  throughout  this  little  pilgrimage 
of  mine  and  have  been  astonished  by  the  infe 
riority  of  first-class  hotels  in  the  provinces  to 
first-class  establishments  in  Europe.  The  ser- 

323 


ATLANTIC  CITY 

vice  and  the  cooking  are  on  a  much  lower  scale, 
for  the  native  American  doesn't  care  for  the 
nuance  in  his  food,  in  his  art,  in  his  literature. 
He  likes  them  all  flavourless.  He  gobbles  every 
thing  in  a  hurry,  and  quantity  is  more  telling 
than  quality.  This  also  applies  to  the  manner 
in  which  he  accumulates  money;  but  there  he 
has  the  better  of  the  European. 

Are  pianos  ever  tuned  at  summer  hotels? 
Better  the  mechanical  eloquence  of  the  mechan 
ical  piano  than  the  cracked  tintinnabulations  of 
Chopin  played  by  a  young  woman  with  a  lawn- 
tennis  touch.  And  we  are  as  crude  musically 
as  in  other  things.  The  length  of  the  land 
wretched  music  reigns.  You  may  miss  it  in  the 
city,  but  you  are  a  helpless  victim  when  vaca 
tion  days  find  you  on  the  countryside.  A  na 
tion  is  no  better  than  the  music  it  makes;  its 
music  is  its  touchstone.  Let  us  mitigate  the 
rigour  of  this  statement,  else  should  we  stand 
shamefaced  before  the  world,  so  vile,  so  vulgar, 
so  clatteringly  empty  is  our  popular  music-mak 
ing  —  with  a  few  honourable  exceptions.  Don't 
fancy  I  yearn  for  the  classics  or  Wagner  during 
the  dog-days.  Better  are  the  old  so-called 
" darky"  tunes  of  Stephen  Foster  as  compared 
to  the  shrill  insolence  of  the  degrading  ragtime, 
the  snorting  marches,  and  back-alley  two-steps 
that  fill  the  spaces  of  our  hotels  with  their  im 
pertinent,  shallow  sonorities.  How  can  a  coun 
try  aspire  to  artistic  grandeur  that  tolerates  such 
musical  monstrosities!  Better  a  toneless  land 

324 


ATLANTIC   CITY 

than  such  parodies.  No  wonder  we  grow  Corn- 
stocks  instead  of  Mozarts ! 

Ah !  If  America  would  only  stick  to  Amer 
ican  cookery  we  should  not  be  a  nation  of  dys 
peptics.  There  is  better,  because  plainer,  cook 
ing  in  many  farmhouses  than  at  our  hotels. 
The  curse  of  imitation  hangs  over  the  menu  — 
imitating  the  names  of  French  dishes,  it  seldom 
comes  nearer  than  the  name.  Why  should  we 
be  poisoned  by  these  wretched  attempts  at  the 
Gallic.  Everywhere  the  order  of  the  French 
dinner  —  rather  say  the  Parisian  —  is  attempted. 
But  we  get  watery  soups,  fish  with  mediocre 
sauce,  the  roast  seldom  rare  and  neither  Eng 
lish  nor  French,  the  entrees  ridiculous  and 
chilled,  while  the  unhappy  vegetables  are  mar 
shalled  in  like  a  fleet  of  porcelain  scows  sur 
rounding  the  flag-ship  —  a  plate  of  overdone  beef 
floating  in  thin  gravy.  We  have  the  best  ma 
terial  in  the  world  —  meats,  fowl,  vegetables, 
fruits  —  and  in  America  the  cooking  is  the  worst 
in  the  world.  Why?  Simply  because  we  pat 
tern  at  a  deplorable  distance  after  a  foreign 
model.  The  real  American  home  cooking  sets 
your  memory  jubilating. 

But  Atlantic  City  at  night!  It  is  a  picture 
for  such  different  painters  as  Whistler  or  Tou 
louse-Lautrec,  and  it  is  a  sight  not  duplicated 
on  earth.  Miles  of  glittering  electric  lamps 
light  the  Boardwalk.  Even  the  dark  spaces 
above  the  Pickle  pier  are  now  festooned  with 
lace-like  fire.  It  is  a  carnival  of  flame.  You 

325 


ATLANTIC  CITY 

may  start  from  the  spot  where  in  letters  of  fire 
you  read,  "Will  you  marry  me?"  near  the  Heinz 
pier,  and  with  a  book  slowly  walk  for  miles, 
perusing  it  all  the  while  until  you  have  passed 
the  lower  end  of  the  walk,  which  recalls  Coney 
Island,  and  finally  touch  the  last  wooden  rail. 
Or,  if  you  prefer  riding,  take  one  of  those  com 
fortable  sedan-chairs  and  be  wheeled  by  a  dark 
lad  for  a  small  sum.  The  enormous  amount  of 
electricity  consumed  seems  to  make  the  air 
vital.  Through  these  garlands  of  light  moves 
a  mob  of  well-behaved  humans.  The  women 
are  more  mysterious  than  in  the  daytime. 
Everywhere  you  encounter  the  glances  of  count 
less  eyes  if  you  are  still  youthful.  Evening 
toilets  of  the  most  dazzling  kind  assault  your 
nerves.  Wealth  fairly  envelops  you.  There  is 
apparently  no  such  thing  as  poverty  or  sickness 
in  existence;  the  optimistic  exuberance  of  the 
American  woman  and  man  is  seen  here  at  its 
ripest.  There  is  a  suggestion  of  the  overblown, 
of  the  snobbish,  in  this  display,  but  I  was  not 
looking  for  the  fly  in  the  ointment,  and  so  I  en 
joyed  the  picture  as  I  should  have  enjoyed  some 
gorgeous  tableau  in  Aida  or  Salammbo.  It  was 
as  real.  The  love-birds  kept  up  their  whirring 
as  from  the  lighthouse  to  the  new  pier  the  pro 
cession  bubbled  and  boiled.  No  wonder  Sarah 
Bernhardt  exclaimed  in  her  effusive  manner 
that  Atlantic  City  is  unique.  And  she  saw  it 
in  the  winter-time. 

On  the  Steel  pier  they  were  giving  a  children's 
ball.    I  had  wearied  of  vaudeville,  of  the  roller- 
326 


ATLANTIC  CITY 

skating,  of  the  thousand  and  two  shows  to  be 
viewed,  scattered  over  the  various  piers.  A 
child's  ball  would  be  a  genuine  novelty.  Chil 
dren  rule  at  this  city.  I  saw  so  few  at  Cape 
May  that  babies  appear  to  rain  from  the  skies 
here.  They  roll  about  the  sand  like  little  ani 
mals,  and  when  they  should  be  in  bed,  dreaming 
of  candy  angels,  they  are  togged  in  festal  rai 
ment  and  allowed  to  dance  their  tender  legs 
off  till  midnight.  The  huge  dancing-hall  of  the 
pier  was  filled  with  happy  and  proud  parents. 
A  band  played  with  vicious  precision  a  march 
as  a  half-mile  of  children  and  tots  of  three  or 
four  slowly  paced  the  slippery  floor.  A  master 
of  ceremonies  with  a  cool  head  solemnly  guided 
the  manoeuvres  of  this  juvenile  army.  Two  by 
two,  boy  and  girl,  they  moved  to  the  music  with 
shining,  evening  faces,  all  vainly  dressed,  all 
eager  and  joyous.  They  were  each  given  a 
prize.  The  effect  was  indescribable.  Nearly 
half  a  thousand  children,  preparing  for  the  great, 
good  game  of  life,  some  of  them  with  matured 
faces,  the  majority  wearing  that  wonderful  ex 
pression  of  expectancy,  as  if  the  curtain  were 
about  to  be  lifted  and  the  glorious  secret  of  life 
revealed  to  their  ravished  gaze.  I  could  not  help 
recalling  Thackeray  and  his  moist  spectacles 
when  he  heard  the  charity  children  sing  at  St. 
Paul's.  I  tried  to  weep,  but  the  music  was  too 
excruciating,  and  a  child  slipped  on  the  polished 
parquet  and  —  drat  that  youngster !  she  dropped 
sand  in  my  shoe  when  I  was  getting  my  hand 
kerchief  ready ! 

327 


They  have  a  hyphenated  hotel  on  the  beach. 
The  architecture  of  one  section  is  so  extraor 
dinary  that  I  gasped  when  I  saw  it.  I  haven't 
the  remotest  notion  of  the  architect's  name,  nor 
did  I  go  into  the  hotel,  fearing  the  usual  per 
fection  of  modern  appliances  and  all  the  rest  of 
the  useful  things  that  are  driving  romance  away 
from  our  age.  It  was  the  exterior  that  glued 
my  feet  to  the  Boardwalk.  If  Coleridge,  in 
Kubla  Khan,  or  Poe,  in  The  Domain  of  Arnheim, 
had  described  such  a  fantastic  structure  we 
should  have  understood,  for  they  were  men  of 
imagination.  But  in  the  chilly,  aesthetic  air 
of  our  country,  where  utility  leads  beauty  by 
the  nose,  to  see  a  man  giving  rein  to  his  fancy 
as  has  the  man  who  conceived  this  exotic  pile 
is  delightfully  refreshing.  William  Beckford, 
the  author  of  Vathek,  would  have  wished  for 
nothing  richer.  The  architecture  might  be 
Byzantine.  It  suggests  St.  Marco's  at  Venice, 
St.  Sophia  at  Constantinople,  or  a  Hindu  palace, 
with  its  crouching  dome,  its  operatic  fagade, 
and  its  two  dominating  monoliths  with  blunt 
tops.  Built  of  concrete,  the  exterior  decoration 
is  a  luxurious  exfoliation  in  hues,  turquoise  and 
fawn.  I  did  not  venture  near  the  building  for 
fear  some  Atlantic  City  Flip  would  cry  out: 
"Wake  up!  You  are  at  Winslow  Junction!" 
If  ever  I  go  to  the  place  again  it  will  be  to  see 
this  dream  architecture,  with  its  strange  evoca 
tions  of  Asiatic  colour  and  music. 


328 


II 

NEWPORT 

AT  Newport  I  tasted  sour  grapes.  In  the 
heart  of  Newport  I  became  a  snob.  Newport 
saw  me  fall  from  grace,  social,  not  sinful.  Worse 
remains  —  at  Newport  I  took  my  maiden  voy 
age  in  a  motor-car.  I  am  still  giddy  from  the 
swiftly  shifting  experiences  of  the  week  spent 
at  the  Queen  of  Summer  Resorts  —  as  the  real- 
estate  agents  call  this  little  Rhode  Island  town. 
I  had  reached  Boston,  only  to  miss  the  one  com 
fortable  afternoon  train  to  Newport.  And  the 
night  of  horror  I  spent  in  that  congeries  of 
crooked  streets  I  endured  as  a  penance  for  my 
frequent  complaints  against  New  York.  We  are 
noisy,  but  Boston  caps  us  at  the  game.  Their 
elevated  railroad  sounds  like  the  thunderous  ap 
proach  of  a  tornado;  to  sleep  within  a  mile  of 
it  is  out  of  the  question,  particularly  as  they 
close  the  drug  stores  at  eleven  o'clock.  What 
man  said  that  he  would  rather  be  a  policeman  in 
Harlem  than  a  poet  in  Boston  ?  Although  I  do 
not  know  his  name,  I  wave  him  a  friendly  salute. 

Naturally  I  arrived  at  Newport  the  next  day 
in  a  bad  humour.  The  weather  did  not  improve 
my  temper.  It  was  muggy.  It  weighed  upon 

329 


NEWPORT 

one  like  the  folds  of  a  deflated  balloon.  You 
felt  heavier,  older,  more  serious.  This,  then,  I 
thought,  is  the  nerve-soothing  climate  I  have 
read  so  much  about !  Give  me  Saratoga.  Give 
me  the  Berkshires.  In  a  depressing  mood  I 
sauntered  through  the  town,  which  was  lively 
enough,  preparations  for  the  carnival  being  in 
progress.  But  I  found  it  dull,  not  quaintly  dull, 
as  did  Henry  James,  but  provincially  so.  The 
old  court-house,  Touro  Park,  Morton  Park,  the 
Hebrew  cemetery,  the  queer  little  streets  with 
queer  little  houses  on  them,  the  narrow  side 
walks  —  all  these,  with  their  historical  memories, 
did  not  elicit  from  me  the  mental  spark  we  call 
interest.  My  historic  sense  failed  me  when  most 
I  needed  it.  I  did  not  feel  the  thrill  patriotic 
when  I  saw  Uncle  Sam's  sailors  rolling  about  the 
place  loaded  to  the  gunwales  with  fire-water. 
Nor  did  I  go  out  of  my  way  to  look  at  the  Perry 
Monument  or  Fort  Adams.  In  a  word,  I  was 
a  disgruntled  human,  suffering  from  the  hu 
midity,  annoyed  by  the  proximity  of  much 
inutile  bustle,  and  selfishly  absorbed  in  himself. 
Perhaps  I  was  suffering  from  that  minor  malady 
peculiar  to  socialists  called  "sour  grapes."  I 
had  asked  several  policemen  to  point  me  out  an 
aristocrat,  a  millionaire;  but  my  request  had 
in  all  cases  been  received  with  suspicious  glances. 
I  had  seen  French  and  English  aristocrats  and 
had  been  greatly  impressed  by  their  disengage 
ment  from  the  quotidian  things  of  life.  They 
had  sauntered,  they  had  lolled,  they  had  looked 

33° 


NEWPORT 

bored.  Would  the  American  aristo  saunter,  loll, 
and  look  bored  ?  Finally  a  man  who  was  read 
ing  Thoreau  near  the  Old  Mill  advised  me  to 
hire  a  carriage  and  see  the  ocean  driveway. 

As  soon  as  we  entered  Bellevue  Avenue,  what 
I  had  been  searching  for  commenced  to  make  its 
presence  apprehended;  the  thrice-distilled,  the 
precious  atmosphere  of  Newport  gently  smote 
my  dejected  consciousness.  I  sat  up  and  began 
to  take  notice.  The  driver  was  an  old  resident, 
a  bluff  person,  middle-aged,  shrewd,  and  not 
given  to  mincing  his  language.  He  called  a 
millionaire  a  millionaire.  Before  I  had  reached 
the  Spouting  Rock  I  had  made  the  acquain 
tance  of  the  largest  and  most  select  closet  of 
family  skeletons  outside  of  an  anatomical  mu 
seum.  How  they  dangled  before  my  eyes ! 
How  they  beckoned  with  bony  beckonings !  How 
they  leered  from  their  empty  eye  sockets !  How 
they  wagged  their  shining  skulls !  It  was  a 
Danse  Macabre  this  coachman  set  moving  for 
my  benefit.  And  what  a  catalogue  of  misery, 
sin,  unhappiness,  sordid  vulgarity,  even  crime, 
was  unrolled !  Suicide,  embezzlement,  dishon 
oured  homes,  disgrace,  and  all  manner  of  follies 
had  happened  within  the  sacred  precincts  of 
this  billion-dollar  paradise.  Anecdote  piled  on 
anecdote;  scandal  trailed  after  scandal;  no  one 
was  spared.  In  despair  I  asked  this  dealer  in 
fractured  decalogues  if  he  took  me  for  a  news 
paper  man.  He  replied,  without  an  appearance 
of  surprise,  that  he  knew  I  was  a  clergyman. 


NEWPORT 

"Then  drive  to  the  nearest  church,"  I  sternly 
admonished  him,  "or  else  stop  talking!"  He 
swallowed  the  hint  and  we  drove  on.  But  I 
still  suffered.  What !  this  angelic  retreat  con 
cealed  such  vile  and  pitiful  histories?  Of  what 
value  is  great  wealth  if  it  cannot  smooth  away 
all  the  rough  places,  heal  all  the  sores?  This 
modern  philosopher's  stone  for  which  we  all 
struggle,  this  magic  medium  which  occupies  the 
foreground  of  our  waking  and  dreaming  thoughts 
our  lives  long  —  is  it  not  the  real  solvent  of  evil? 
May  it  be  in  reality  evil  itself? 

"Over  yonder,"  said  the  driver,  breaking  my 
profound  meditations,  "is  The  Breakers."  The 
mist  encircled  it  and  it  looked  like  a  mediaeval 
fortress,  full  of  torture  chambers. 

Many  other  wonderful  houses  I  saw,  veritable 
palaces,  surrounded  by  magnificent  gardens,  em 
bowered  densely  in  flowers,  beautiful  beyond  the 
dream  of  poets,  and  framed  by  rich  vegetation 
and  trees  of  heroic  growth.  All  that  has  been 
said  in  praise  of  Newport  you  may  safely  set 
down  as  an  understatement.  It  is  more  formal 
than  you  may  expect  —  I  mean  in  the  rectitude 
of  its  wide  avenues  on  the  Hill  and  in  the  con 
trolled  efflorescence  of  its  horticulture.  Design, 
taste,  even  fantasy,  are  everywhere  visible. 
There  are  explosions  of  hydrangeas  of  almost 
every  hue,  in  company  with  the  looming  and 
floral  flight  of  tall  hollyhocks.  I  saw  some  gar 
dens  that  recalled  England,  others  that  trans 
ported  me  to  Italy  —  but  Italy  in  the  spring- 

332 


NEWPORT 

tide,  before  the  lustre  of  summer  has  robbed  the 
hills  of  their  delicate  contours,  the  flowers  of 
their  virginal  pose.  If  Newport  should  ever 
change  its  commonplace  name  it  could  be  re- 
christened  Hydrangea  without  doing  violence 
either  to  fact  or  imagination. 

The  Cliff  Walk  is  three  miles  and  a  half  of 
the  pure  picturesque.  From  Easton's  Beach  to 
Land's  End  there  is  a  series  of  surprises;  not 
alone  in  the  villas,  but  in  the  coy  turns  of  the 
walk,  the  unexpected  change  of  marine  physiog 
nomy,  and  then  the  sheer  romance  of  the  entire 
coast.  Unlike  Mr.  James,  I  came  to  Newport 
unburdened  by  memories.  It  was  my  first  visit. 
I  saw  it  with  eyes  not  haunted  by  ghosts  of  dead 
youth;  nor  did  I  fetch  with  me  prejudices. 

If  society  folk  can't  always  catch  the  glint  of 
gold  on  a  canvas  of  Monticelli,  or  the  harmonies 
in  a  Ballade  by  Chopin,  or  the  ethereal  tones  of 
Shelley,  or  the  marmoreal  splendours  of  Milton, 
or  the  tortured  music  of  a  Rodin  group,  why,  it 
is  their  loss.  As  compensation  they  may  dine 
and  wine  —  not  things  to  be  despised  —  dress 
and  gamble,  waste  or  win;  above  all,  feel  to  their 
finger-tips  a  sense  of  power.  And  the  last  may 
be  best.  Things  balance  in  this  universe,  not 
withstanding  our  cry  against  the  injustice  of  the 
cosmos.  I  should  probably  be  a  very  unhappy 
man  were  I  wealthy;  yet  I  understand  the 
pleasures  wealth  confers.  So  do  not  let  us  de 
spise  the  multimillionaire.  Often  has  his  wealth 
been  thrust  upon  him.  Often  it  irks  its  owner, 

333 


NEWPORT 

who  seeks  to  get  rid  of  the  burden  by  opening 
his  windows  and  throwing  his  money  into  the 
streets.  We  speak  of  such  as  dissipated;  in 
reality  it  is  nature  striving  to  attain  its  accus 
tomed  mediocrity.  Let  us  applaud  spend 
thrifts  and  them  that  go  down  to  the  market 
place,  there  to  fribble  away  their  inheritance. 
And  let  us  also  put  an  end  to  this  useless  moral 
ising  and  continue  our  tale. 

I  had  viewed  all  Newport  from  the  outside.  I 
had  been  to  the  Casino  playground  looking  for 
my  American  aristocrat,  instead  seeing  a  nice 
set  of  young  chaps  with  brawny,  sun-spotted 
arms  all  playing  tennis;  I  had  lunched  at  Ber- 
ger's,  walked  through  Love  Lane  —  alas  !  — 
alone;  had  glanced  at  General  Prescott's  head 
quarters  in  1776,  at  the  home  of  William  Ellery, 
a  signer  of  the  Declaration  of  Independence;  at 
the  old  Trinity  Church,  the  Channing  House, 
built  in  1720;  the  New  York  Yacht  Club,  the 
Windmill,  even  had  I  gone  to  Lawton's  Valley; 
I  knew  the  Parade  by  heart,  and  I  disliked  the 
brittle  noise  of  Thames  Street,  disliked  its 
crowds,  its  ugly  shops.  At  Mile  End  I  found 
solitude;  and  I  viewed  Gooseberry  Island  — 
its  seclusion  —  that  tiny  islet  where  poker  is 
played  to  the  swash  of  the  waves,  where  jack-pots 
of  fabulous  sums  are  opened  by  the  sporting  old 
bucks  who  go  over  in  launches  and  return  often 
with  empty  pockets.  When  I  passed  Rocham- 
beau's  headquarters  during  the  Revolution  I 
tried  to  conjure  up  a  thrill,  but  a  baby  playing 

334 


NEWPORT 

on  the  door-step  with  a  kitten  was  better  to  my 
eyes  than  all  the  musty,  dusty  memories.  I 
saw  Bailey's  Beach,  where  the  swells  bathe  in 
perfumed  salt  water;  Easton's  Beach,  where  the 
water  is  common  salt  for  the  plain  people. 

This  same  drive  was  under  a  slaty  grey  sky. 
The  ocean  was  leaden  in  hue,  and  across  the 
bay  the  clouds  hung  like  those  "white  elephants" 
Henry  James  saw  on  the  Cliff  Walk.  The  world 
was  drab  for  me.  I  met  a  few  people  driving. 
Otherwise  Newport  seemed  unpeopled.  The  Ad- 
dicks  mansion,  the  "gas  house,"  looked  dreary 
on  its  dreary  perch.  And  then  something  hap 
pened.  A  voice  I  well  knew  called  out: 

"You  plumber,  you !  What  comet  shook  you 
from  its  tail  into  Newport?"  It  was  Clarence, 
the  only  son  and  graceless  heir  of  a  chewing- 
gum  emperor,  in  his  sixty-horse-power  car  puff 
ing  and  blowing  on  the  narrows  and  I  sitting  in 
a  hired  vehicle  watching  him  with  amazed  eyes. 
My  driver  had  also  astonished  eyes.  He  ap 
peared  downcast.  He  was  evidently  pondering 
his  list  of  skeletons ! 

"You  chump,  get  out  of  that  trap  and  come 
into  my  boiler-shop.  I  call  this  machine  of  mine 
mangeur  de  poulets,  it  eats  up  the  chickens  so 
beautifully."  I  stretched  my  cramped  legs  and 
responded  to  Clarence's  invitation  slowly.  For 
one  thing,  I  didn't  like  the  look  of  his  piratical 
craft.  I  hated  to  admit  it  —  I  had  never  been 
in  an  automobile  before.  Clarence  laughed. 

"Don't  let  that  worry  you  —  you  won't  con- 

335 


NEWPORT 

tract  seasickness;  and  please  call  it  a  motor-car. 
They  say  'automobiles'  in  New  York.  This  is 
Newport."  I  grinned.  Then  I  asked  my  man 
what  I  owed  him.  He  calculated  audibly. 
"You're  not  keeping  to  your  contract,"  he 
blandly  observed,  "and  so  it  will  cost  you  a  dol 
lar  extra." 

"But,  you  old  undertaker  of  live  reputations," 
I  hotly  answered,  "I'm  saving  you  a  farther 
ride."  "I'm  here  and  I've  got  to  take  the  team 
home,"  he  doggedly  maintained.  And  so  I  paid 
him,  greatly  wondering  at  Rhode  Island  arith 
metic. 

"Serves  you  right,"  added  Clarence,  "for  not 
letting  me  know  you  were  here.  Jump  in. 
Hold  on  to  your  teeth.  Let  her  go !"  We  flew 
homeward.  We  flew  heavenward.  I  saw  sky 
rush  down  to  sea  and  meet  in  rough  embrace. 
Houses  looked  like  trees  and  trees  like  tooth 
picks.  I  remembered  my  past  and  I  saw  my 
future;  the  present  was  merely  a  humming 
bridge  between.  Clarence,  still  smiling,  tooted 
masterfully.  From  Bailey's  Beach  to  Easton's 
we  ran  in  thirty-three  seconds  —  at  least  that 
is  what  he  said.  Later  I  discovered  that  he  had 
been  boasting. 

But  the  ride  had  other  results.  A  psychical 
transformation  was  going  on  within  me.  My 
subliminal  self  was  slowly  pushing  into  the  map 
of  my  consciousness  a  new  Me.  Suddenly  I  be 
came  a  snob.  A  full-fledged  snob  sat  in  the 
place  occupied  before  by  a  modest,  middle- 


NEWPORT 

aged,  stout  person,  full  of  the  vapours.  What 
had  happened?  Alas,  I  was  become  a  snob! 
I  meanly  admired  mean  things.  I  admired  my 
self.  I  admired  the  auto  —  the  motor-car.  I 
admired  Clarence.  Above  all,  I  looked  down  on 
the  world  afoot.  What  black  magic  had  ema 
nated  from  the  petrol  of  this  fugacious  machine 
that  so  changed  a  man  into  a  snob !  Mark  the 
consequences. 

"Clarence,"  I  said,  endeavouring  to  appear 
haughty,  "Clarence,  what  are  those  creatures 
in  the  surf?"  Clarence,  still  wearing  that 
damnable  smile  of  his,  responded: 

"Those  are  the  common  people  bathing." 

"Ah,  you  mean  hoi  polloi."  I  chuckled  at  my 
wit. 

"Odi  profanum  vulgus,"  he  quickly  retorted. 
When  bad  Greek  meets  worse  Latin,  then  comes 
the  tug  of  tongues !  Our  chauffeur  —  I  say 
"our"  —who  sat  in  the  garage,  or  the  pan- 
neau,  or  some  part  of  the  locomotive,  was  a  New 
Zealander  disguised  as  a  man  from  Brittany. 
He  was  versed  in  all  the  moves  of  the  social 
checker-board.  As  we  turned  toward  the  town 
he  blew  a  whistle. 

"I  made  him  do  that,"  remarked  Clarence 
languidly,  "to  remind  me  of  my  engagements." 
The  idea  tickled  my  fancy. 

"Why  not  employ  flappers,  as  they  did  in 
Swift'sLaputa?" 

"Howdye  do,  Reggie?"  called  out  Clarence  to 
a  young  fellow  in  a  red-wheeled  bucking  bronco. 

337 


NEWPORT 

The  name  sounded  familiar.  Reggie  and  New 
port  !  Ay,  ay,  of  course,  said  I  to  myself,  remem 
bering  my  blue  book. 

"Howdye  do,  Harry?"  I  sat  up,  displaying 
pardonable  curiosity. 

"The  Harry?" 

"Of  course,"  replied  Clarence  pettishly. 
"And,  old  man,  please  don't  wear  your  ignorance 
on  your  sleeve,  I'll  post  you  later.  I'm  ashamed 
if  Armance,  my  chauffeur,  hears  you.  Remem 
ber —  not  a  word  about  chewing-gum  down 
here.  They  won't  stand  for  it.  I'm  the  son 
of  a  sugar  sultan,  not,  as  you  so  stupidly  call 
it,  a  chewing-gum  potentate.  And  please  don't 
make  so  much  fun  of  the  girls  who  chew  gum  in 
America.  My  father  has  already  asked  me  to 
cross  you  off  my  visiting  list.  All  American  girls 
chew  gum.  Also  —  in  the  house  of  the  hangman 
no  one  speaks  of  the  rope !" 

"And  in  Newport?"  I  hazarded.  He  pulled 
up  his  machine. 

"Newport  is  not  America  —  put  that  in  your 
social  pipe  and  smoke  it.  Newport  is  an  island 
surrounded  by  Americans.  All  the  smart  Amer 
icans  are  working  twenty-five  hours  a  day  to  get 
here;  their  wives  are  driving  them  to  it.  And  if 
work  won't  get  them  here  they  rob  banks,  plun 
der  insurance  companies,  water  railroad  stock, 
milk  the  public  generally  so  as  to  land  here." 
He  paused. 

"And  what  do  they  do  when  they  do  get 
here?"  I  said,  as  if  in  a  dream.  I  was  still  a 

338 


NEWPORT 

snob.  I  still  saw  myself  hugely  silhouetted 
against  the  social  horizon,  with  my  friends  at 
my  boot  heels.  Oh,  automobile  —  I  mean, 
motor-car  —  what  sins  may  be  laid  to  thy  ac 
count!  Thou  art  the  modern  Mephisto  who 
tempts  the  poor  little  Fausts  that  earn  a  handful 
of  dollars  every  week ! 

"Do?"  replied  Clarence,  calmly  handing  a 
cigarette  to  the  hairy  Armance,  "why,  work  like 
the  rest  of  the  social  convicts  on  this  island  of 
golden  castaways."  I  roared.  Clarence  could 
be  witty.  But  he  regarded  me  sourly. 

"Don't  be  a  bromide !"  he  tartly  commanded. 
Ever  since  he  had  met  Gelett  Burgess  at  a  dolls' 
dance  Clarence  fancied  himself  a  sulphite.  But 
he  wasn't.  I  knew  it.  I  laughed  again,  loudly 
and,  I  fear,  vacantly. 

"There  you  go,"  he  exclaimed.  "You  are 
like  the  rest  of  the  rank  outsiders.  You  come 
down  here  and  go  to  the  Casino  or  to  the  club, 
and  because  you  see  some  people  lounging  you 
talk  about  the  idle  rich.  But  there  are  no  idle 
rich  at  Newport.  They  are  the  busy  rich.  They 
work  harder  than  a  motorman.  They  are  nearly 
all  motormen.  Mechanics,  jockeys,  athletes, 
gourmands  —  if  they  can't  work  their  muscles 
they  can  their  teeth  —  pedestrians,  gymnasts, 
swimmers,  sailors,  butlers,  dancers,  polo  play 
ers,  bar  mixers,  lawn-tennis  virtuosi,  aeronauts, 
locomotive  drivers,  horse  trainers,  billiardists  — 
why,  the  list  might  be  stretched  from  here  to 
the  harbour.  Idle?  These  people?  They  work 

339 


NEWPORT 

harder  than  draught  horses  from  morning  to 
midnight.  They  toil  as  toils  no  sailor  doing  his 
daily  stint.  And  they  put  their  soul  into  their 
work.  And  the  women  are  quite  as  devoted  in 
this  self-abnegation.  Just  watch  Willie  Dubbs 
—  you  know,  the  son  of  old  Dubbs,  who  was 
painted  by  Sargent.  Don't  you  remember  that 
picture  at  the  society's  exhibition,  No.  23,  Por 
trait  of  a  Gentlemanly  Ass?  Well,  watch 
Willie  mix  a  cocktail.  No  artist  at  the  Waldorf 
can  touch  him.  No,  my  poor  old  chap,  you 
don't  know  this  crowd  as  I  do.  Their  money 
is  not  like  that  of  Midas.  Everything  they 
touch  turns  them  to  work.  If  they  can't  work 
they  die  —  die  of  indigestion  or  of  ennui.  And 
a  healthier,  handsomer  set  of  men  and  women 
you  won't  see  in  all  America.  They  all  look  as 
if  Gibson  and  Dick  Davis  designed  them.  Go 
any  Thursday  night  to  Freebody  Park,  where 
they  give  a  vaudeville  show.  Well,  you'll  find 
the  boxes  crowded  with  the  best  set.  There  is 
little  difference,  after  all,  between  the  poor 
American  man  and  the  American  aristocrat. 
Both  have  the  same  tastes.  Both  eat,  drink, 
smoke,  and  slang  as  much  as  they  can.  Both 
work  hard,  both  enjoy  vaudeville  shows,  both 
like  pretty  women,  both"  —  I  interrupted 
him. 

"And  how  about  poetry,  art,  music?  How 
about  the  old-fashioned  leisure  and  dignity  ?  " 

"Rot!  Nowadays  we  haven't  time  to  be 
polite.  We're  hustlers." 

340 


NEWPORT 

"Bravo,  monsieur!"  It  was  the  voice  of 
Armance.  Clarence  was  touched. 

"But  as  to  Harry?  What  does  he  work?"  I 
persisted. 

"Oh,  Harry!  He  makes  epigrams.  Here. 
Armance,  take  the  wheel.  Watch  the  compass. 
Keep  her  headed  N.  by  N.  E.  We  go  to  Reg 
gie's  festival."  I  was  appalled.  I  wore  plain 
clothes.  My  tie  was  Bromidian,  even  though 
my  soul  was  snobbish.  But  Clarence  would 
take  no  refusal.  He  pulled  a  note-book  from  his 
buff  velvet  jacket  and  began  reading  from  it  at 
the  top  of  his  lungs. 

"Here  is  a  batch  of  the  cleverest  things  Harry 
got  off  at  the  Wormwoods'  dance  last  Friday.  I 
thought  the  Missus  would  die  of  smiles.  Listen 
—  and  don't  give  me  away:  'The  first  to  holler 
is  the  first  to  collar.'  Great,  isn't  it?  'Bridge 
is  hell!'  'Faint  nerve  never  won  a  full  hand.' 
'Who  said  fizz?'  They  always  shriek  at  that 
one.  'Apres  moi  —  le  poisson.'  'There's  as 
good  fish  in  the  sea  as  ever  came  out  of  the 
Stuyvesant  pond.'  'A  live  monkey  is  better 
than  a  dead  leader.'  'What's  the  difference  be 
tween  Newport  and  the  Pier?"  Clarence  im 
patiently  awaited  my  answer.  I  regarded  him 
blankly.  "Well?"  "Isn't  it  because  Brander 
Matthews  stops  at  the  Pier?" 

"You're  the  limit,"  he  coarsely  said.  "No, 
it's  because  at  Narragansett  the  bathing  is  bet 
ter."  I  moaned.  Then  I  stretched  my  arms 
skyward. 


NEWPORT 

"Oh,  Clyde  Fitch,  where  are  you  that  I  may 
make  my  apologies  for  having  attacked  your 
stage  pictures  of  this  life?  You  didn't  make  it 
half  strong  enough  —  no,  not  by  a  half." 

"Stop  your  critical  yapping;  these  are  really 
mine,  not  Harry's.  Here  we  are."  We  dis 
mounted.  There  were  about  five  thousand  peo 
ple,  rich,  poor,  shabby  relatives,  parasites,  social 
molluscs,  and  farmers,  all  trying  to  get  in  at 
once.  It  was  a  few  miles  from  Newport.  The 
affair  was  for  a  laudable  benefit  —  I  forget  now 
just  which  one.  I  think  few  present  knew. 
How  the  snobbery  of  these  people  sickened  me ! 
Not  one-tenth  of  them  knew  their  hosts  by  sight, 
yet  they  chatted  of  them  like  old  friends.  So 
did  I  to  Clarence.  I  said  "Reggie"  a  dozen 
times;  and  how  they  stared  at  the  prettily 
garbed  and  beautiful  society  women  serving  ice 
cream  and  lemonade!  So  did  I.  But  I  fancy 
I  did  it  less  rudely.  Oh,  snobs,  snobs,  snobs! 
And  I  among  them  all,  admiring  the  display  of 
wealth,  the  wonderful  training-ring,  the  wonder 
ful  horses,  the  marvellous  women.  I  saw  all  the 
fashionable  people  whose  names  were  printed 
next  morning  in  the  papers.  The  trouble  was 
that  they  didn't  see  me.  I  expressed  this  idea 
to  Clarence,  but  he  was  busily  engaged  talking 
to  a  girl  with  turquoise-coloured  eyes  who  spoke 
slang  with  a  heavenly  intonation.  Oh,  snobs, 
snobs,  snobs  -. 

I  was  about  to  address  Mrs.  Arthur  Pompa 
dour,  when  Clarence,  holding  me  by  the  elbow, 

342 


NEWPORT 

led  me  to  his  chicken-slaying  chariot.  Once 
ensconced  therein  he  huskily  asked:  "Where?" 
"Armance,  home  for  this  social  aspirant." 
Away  we  bowled.  I  was  in  the  swim.  So  was 
Clarence.  But  Clarence  was  rich  and  I  was 
poor.  At  last  I  dozed  off,  only  to  be  overtaken 
by  a  nightmare,  in  which  I  found  myself  sweat 
ing  as  I  tunnelled  my  way  into  the  safe  of  the 
Chemical  Bank.  I  must  have  money,  money 
for  Newport.  Help !  Help !  I  awoke.  It  was 
day.  Es  war  ein  traum.  Alas,  poor  snob! 

That  afternoon  we  cut  the  dust  on  the  way  to 
Narragansett  Pier.  We  took  one  of  the  ferries 
to  Jamestown,  crossed  the  island  at  a  clip,  rolled 
on  another  boat  and,  once  ashore,  rushed  our 
gait  until  we  stood  puffing  and  clanking  before 
the  Casino.  After  some  of  Sherry's  cooking 
we  went  about  and  I  saw  the  place  once 
beloved  of  Edgar  Saltus  and  celebrated  in  his 
brilliant  prose.  Sherry's  chef  pleased  me  as 
much  as  anything  I  encountered  at  the  Pier, 
even  the  ocean  walk.  There  is  a  look  of  faded 
splendour  about  the  place  despite  its  wealth  and 
its  air  of  fashion.  I  have  been  told  by  Clarence 
that  I  am  all  wrong,  that  only  now  is  the  Pier 
taking  on  new  life. 

"Consider,  reflect  if  you  can,"  he  proceeded. 
"You  lunch  at  Berger's,  over  in  Newport,  and 
then  you  leave  early  and  by  hard  steaming  you 
may  get  over  here  and  lunch  at  the  Casino.  Yet 
you  say  our  set  doesn't  do  a  day's  work." 

The  carnival  week,  with  its  glitter,  colour, 

343 


NEWPORT 

bustle,  gaiety,  its  crowds,  yachts,  and  war-ships, 
soldiers,  sailors,  and  numberless  girls,  left  on  me 
a  brighter  impression  of  the  brave  old  town. 
Lovely,  auriferous  Newport,  who  shall  pluck  out 
the  heart  of  thy  melancholy  mystery?  Under 
what  sinister  sand-bank  have  the  jealous  gods 
hidden  the  proofs  of  thy  family  skeletons.  If 
in  New  York  money  makes  the  mare  go,  in  New 
port  it  is  wheels  that  turn  the  brain.  My  brain 
did  not  regain  its  average  gait  until  I  passed 
over  the  gang-plank  of  the  Priscilla,  which  swam 
in  that  harbour  that  looks  so  English ;  and  before 
we  reached  New  York  I  had  shed  my  snobskin 
completely. 

Newport,  thou  pactolian  city  by  the  sea,  be 
fore  whom  so  many  women  of  America  immolate 
themselves,  Newport,  I  adore  thee,  but  I  shall 
never  look  upon  thy  fair  face  again  —  that  is, 
unless  Clarence  invites  me  to  Villa  Confiture. 
Then  by  train  or  balloon  I  shall  storm  thy  ada 
mantine  social  wall.  Do  not  leave  me,  an 
adipose  Peri,  at  the  gates  of  thy  paradise.  At 
Newport  I  tasted  sour  grapes.  Oh,  snobs,  snobs, 
snobs ! 


344 


BOOKS      BY      JAMES     HUNEKER 


UNICORNS 

"The  e*ays  are  short,  full  of  a  satisfying — and  fascinating— 
crispness,  both  memorable  and  delightful.  \nd  they  are  full  of 
fancy,  too,  of  the  gayest  humor,  the  quickest  appreciation,  the 
gentlest  sympathy,  sometimes  of  an  enchanting  extravagance." 

— New  York  Times. 


MELOMANIACS 

"It  would  be  difficult  to  sum  up  'Melomaniacs'  in  a  phrase. 
Never  did  a  book,  in  my  opinion  at  any  rate,  exhibit  greater  con 
trasts,  not,  perhaps,  of  strength  and  weakness,  but  of  clearness  and 
obscurity." 
— HAROLD  E.  GORST,  in  London  Saturday  Review  (Dec.  8,  1906). 


VISIONARIES 

"In  'The  Spiral  Road'  and  in  some  of  the  other  stories  both  fan 
tasy  and  narrative  may  be  compared  with  Hawthorne  in  his  most 
unearthly  moods.  The  younger  man  has  read  his  Nietzsche  and  has 
cast  off  his  heritage  of  simple  morals.  Hawthorne's  Puritanism  finds 
no  echo  in  these  modern  souls,  all  sceptical,  wavering,  and  unblessed. 
But  Hawthorne's  splendor  of  vision  and  his  power  of  sympathy  with 
a  tormenttd  mind  do  live  again  in  the  best  of  Mr.'Hunekcr's  stories." 
— London  Academy  {Feb.  3,  1906). 


ICONOCLASTS: 

A  Book  of  Dramatists 

"His  style  is  a  little  jerky,  but  it  is  one  of  those  rare  styles  in  which 
WC  are  led  to  expect  some  significance,  if  not  wit,  in  every  sentence." 
— G.  K.  CHESTERTON,  in  London  Daily  Newt. 


MEZZOTINTS  IN  MODERN 
MUSIC 

"Mr.  Huneker  is,  in  the  best  sense,  a  critic;  he  listens  to  the 
music  and  give*  you  his  impressions  as  rapidly  and  in  as  few  words 
as  possible;  or  he  sketches  the  composers  in  fine,  broad,  sweeping 
strokes  with  a  magnificent  disregard  for  unimportant  details.  And 
as  Mr.  Huneker  is,  as  I  have  said,  a  powerful  personality,  a  man  of 
quick  brain  and  aa  energetic  imagination,  a  man  of  moods  and  tem 
perament — a  string  that  vibrates  and  sings  in  response  to  music — • 
we  get  in  these  essays  of  his  a  distinctly  original  and  very  valuable 
contribution  to  the  world's  tiny  musical  literature." 

— J.  F.  RUNCIMAN,  in  London  Saturday  Review. 


BOOKS    BY    JAMES    HUNEKER 

LETTERS  OF 
JAMES  GIBBONS  HUNEKER 

These  letters  have  all  the  brilliance  of  his  essays,  but  a  greater 
spontaneity  and  if  possible  a  more  vivid  spirit. 

Among  the  people  to  whom  they  are  written  are  Royal  Cortis- 
soz,  Henry  Cabot  Lodge,  Richard  Aldrich,  H.  E.  Krehbiel,  Ben 
jamin  de  Casseres,  W.  C.  Brownell,  Walter  Pritchard  Eaton,  William 
Marion  Reedy,  Mrs.  Gilbert,  Elizabeth  Jordan,  Frida  Ashfortn, 
Emma  Eames,  the  Marquise  de  Lanza,  Henry  James,  Jr.,  Henry 
L.  Mencken,  etc. 

Every  page  is  alive  with  pointed  comment,  brilliant  character 
ization,  and  vivid  portraiture.  _  Bohemian  and  literary  New  York 
of  the  last  several  decades  is  mirrored  in  these  letters. 


VARIATIONS 

"Hold  your  breath  as  you  go  through  this  book — touring  the 
universe  with  a  man  who  takes  all  of  life  in  its  everlasting  fecundity 
and  efflorescence  for  his  theme." 

— BENJAMIN  DE  CASSERES,  in  the  New  Yerk  Htrald. 


STEEPLEJACK 


ILLUSTRATED 


"Not  only  interesting  because  of  its  record  of  Mr.  Huneker's 
career  and  philosophy,  but  because  it  gives  an  excellent  idea  of  the 
developments  in  art,  music,  and  literature,  both  in  Europe  and  in 
Airerica,  duiing  the  last  forty  years." 

— WILLIAM  LYON  PHELPS,  Yale  University. 


BEDOUINS 

Mary  Garden;  Debussy;  Chopin  or  the  Circus;  Botticelli;  Poe; 
Brahmsody;  Anatole  France;  Mirbeau;  Caruso  on  Wheels;  Calico 
Cats;  the  Artistic  Temperament;  Idols  and  Ambergris;  With  the 
Supreme  Sin;  Grindstones;  A  Masque  of  Music,  and  The  Vision 
Malefic. 


IVORY  APES  AND  PEACOCKS 

"His  critical  tact  is  well-nigh  infallible.  .  .  .    His  position  among 
writers  _on  esthetics  is  anomalous  and  incredible:    no  merchant 
traffics  in  his  heart,  yet  he  commands  a  large,  an  eager,  an  affec 
tionate  public." 
—LAWRENCE  OILMAN,  in  North  American  Renew  (October,  10x5). 


BOOKS      BY      JAMES      HUNEKER 

What  some  distinguished  writers  have  Mid  of 
them  : 

Maurice  Maeterlinck  wrote,  May  15,  1905:  "Do 
you  know  that  'Iconoclasts'  is  the  only  book  of  high 
and  universal  critical  worth  that  we  have  had  for 
years — to  be  precise,  since  Georg  Brandes.  It  is  at 
once  strong  and  fine,  supple  and  firm,  indulgent  and 
sure." 

And  of  "Ivory  Apes  and  Peacocks"  he  said,  among 
other  things:  "I  have  marvelled  at  the  vigilance  and 
clarity  with  which  you  follow  and  judge  the  new  liter 
ary  and  artistic  movements  in  all  countries.  I  do  not 
know  of  criticism  more  pure  and  sure  than  yours." 
(October,  1915.) 

"The  Mercure  de  France  translated  the  other  day 
from  Scribner's  one  of  the  best  studies  which  have  been 
written  on  Stendhal  for  a  long  time,  in  which  there  was 
no  evasion  of  the  question  of  Stendhal's  immorality. 
The  author  of  that  article,  James  Huneker,  is,  among 
foreign  critics,  the  one  best  acquainted  with  French 
literature  and  the  one  who  judges  us  with  the  greatest 
sympathy  and  with  the  most  freedom.  He  has  pro 
tested  with  force  in  numerous  American  journals 
against  the  campaign  of  defamation  against  France  and 
he  has  easily  proved  that  those  who  participate  in  it 
are  ignorant  and  fanatical." — "Promenades  Litteraires" 
(Troisieme  Serie),  Remy  de  Gourmont.  (Translated  by 
Burton  Rascoe  for  the  Chicago  Tribune.) 


Paul  Bourget  wrote,  Lundi  de  Paques,  iQCy,  01 
"Egoists":  "I  have  browsed  through  the  pages  of 
your  book  and  found  that  you  touch  in  a  sympathetic 
style  on  diverse  problems,  artistic  and  literary.  In  the 
case  of  Stendhal  your  catholicity  of  treatmea^  is  ex 
tremely  rare  and  courageous." 

Dr.  Georg  Brandes,  the  versatile  and  profound 
Danish  critic,  wrote:  "I  find  your  breadth  of  view 
and  its  expression  more  European  than  American;  but 
the  essential  thing  is  that  you  are  an  artist  to  your  very 
marrow." 


BOOKS    BY    JAMES    HUNEKER 


NEW  COSMOPOLIS 

"Mr.  James  Huneker,  critic  of  musk  in  the  first  place,  •  a  cntfts- 
man  of  diverse  accomplishment  who  occupies  a  distinctive  and 
distinguished  place  among  present-day  American  essayists.  He 
is  intensely  'modern,'  well  read  in  recent  European  writers,  and  not 
lacking  sympathy  with  the  more  rebellious  spirits.  He  flings 
off  his  impressions  at  fervent  heat;  he  is  not  ashamed  to  be  enthusi 
astic;  and  he  cannot  escape  that  large  sentimentality  which,  to  less 
disciplined  transatlantic  writers,  is  known  nakedly  as  'heart 
interest.'  Out  of  his  chaps  of  reading  and  observation  he  has, 
however,  evolved  a  criticism  of  life  that  makes  for  intellectual 
cultivation,  although  it  is  of  a  Bohemian  rather  than  an  academic 
kind." — London  Athenaum  (November  6,  1915). 

FRANZ  LISZT 

WITH  NUMEROUS  ILLUSTRATIONS 


CHOPIN :    The  Man  and  His  Music 
OVERTONES: 

A  Book  of  Temperaments 

WITH   FRONTISPIECE  PORTRAIT  Of  RICHARD   STRAUSS 

"In  some  respects  Mr.  Huneker  must  be  reckoned  the  most 

brilliant  of  all  living  writers  on  matters  musical." 

— Academy,  London. 

THE  PATHOS  OF  DISTANCE 

A  Book  of  a  Thousand  and  One  Moments 

"The  book  is  stimulating;  brilliant  even  with  an   unexpected 
brilliancy." — Chicago  Tribune. 

PROMENADES  OF  AN 
IMPRESSIONIST 

"We  like  best  such  sober  essays  as  those  which  analyze  for  as 
the  technical  contributions  of  Ce'zanne  and  Rodin.    Here  Mr. 


JEWBTT  MATHER,  JR.,  in  New  York  Nation  and  Evening  Post. 

EGOISTS 

WITH  PORTRAIT  AND  JACSIMILE   REPRODUCTIONS 

K-9°S/slI-and  ?et  lig.htly  wr>"en,  full  of  facts,  yet  as  amusing  a* 
a  bit  of  discurwve  talk,  penetrating,  candid,  aad  very  shrewd  " 
— ROVAL  CORTISSOZ.  in  the  New  York  Tribune. 

CHARLES   SCRIBNER'S   SONS,  NEW   YORK 


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